


whispers of broken things

by flysafepapi



Series: painful, not painless [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 30,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26453554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flysafepapi/pseuds/flysafepapi
Summary: Snapshots into Arthur Shelby's life with his husband.
Relationships: Arthur Shelby/Original Male Character(s)
Series: painful, not painless [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1922968
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	1. family

**Author's Note:**

> crossposted from my tumblr of the same name.

By the time he’s twelve, Vincent understands that he’ll never have a family of his own. The orphanage isn’t what anyone would call nurturing or warm, and everyone knew that it was always the younger kids that got adopted. Once you reached a certain age, you were pretty much on your own. That was fine with him. He doesn’t think he’d fit too well with the type of people that come around to take their pick of the kids in the orphanage. They’re always rich couples, looking for a young kid they can raise as their own, young enough to get away with it but old enough to not need too much looking after. He’s too rough and unpolished for that. After the first few times of being passed over, it stops stinging. If they don’t want him, that’s fine, he doesn’t need them either.

He signs up for the war knowing that there’s no family waiting for him, no one that would miss him if anything happens to him. There’s more than a few familiar faces in the crowd waiting for the train, but he just keeps his eyes ahead. This isn’t a suicide, it’s not, but if he didn’t make it back, well then he’s fine with that too. It’s some god’s sick idea of a joke that he ends up sitting next to Arthur on the train to the training camps. Arthur takes a long look at him, staring for a few long moments, and offers him the flask of whiskey saying “You look like you need this.” He takes it with an attempt at a grin that he’s sure doesn’t work.

There’s not a lot of time for enjoyment when they get to the camps, but not knowing the men that are going to be fighting at your side is a dangerous thing, and there’s nothing like the imminent threat of death to bond people together. It’s not a family, but they’re in this together, and he figures that it’s the best he’s going to get. He’d trust every last one of them with his life, but it’s Arthur that he gravitates towards the most, and his brothers, the first people he became close with since this whole mess started. On a rare day of freedom, they go into the nearest town together, and John needles them all into squashing together for a picture. Vincent ends up in the front, shoved between Arthur and John, his arms around both their shoulders, and it’s easy, like he’s known them for years. The picture gets its own special place in his inside pocket, and when the fighting really starts and they’re separated, he takes it out and looks at it. Him and Arthur haven’t talked about it, the stolen moments when no one is looking, quick kisses in the dark when no one can see, but he knows himself. His mother used to say “You only get one great love, Vinnie,” and he knows that he met his that day on the train.

He misses the end of the war while he’s in the field hospital, fighting to survive the hole in his chest, and they ship him home as soon as he’s stable enough to move. When the train gets in, the station is dark, empty except for the workers going about their jobs, and a man, standing in the rain, at the very end of the platform. The hole is still healing, throbbing with a dull pain, but it gets pushed to the back of his mind when arms wrap around him, pulling him into a tight hug that threatens to push all the air out of his lungs. Seeing Arthur again is relief enough that he doesn’t do anything except sink into it when Arthur kisses him right there on the platform for anyone to see.

“They told me you got hit. I thought-”

“It would take me more than that to keep me down.”

Arthur laughs, but it’s tinged with hysteria and not a small amount of fear, and right away Vincent knows that he’s been worrying himself into the ground not knowing if he’d lived or died.

“Come on. The family are waiting, I told them I’d come and get you. They’re excited to meet you.”

Funny, how it took a war, and almost dying, for him to find a family.


	2. scars

“How’d you get that scar?”

The room goes quiet, all the different conversations stopping when the young boy speaks up. Having all the attention on him makes him uncomfortable, but he finishes pulling the shirt on and looks at Finn. The boy is sitting on the table, looking at him curiously, and all thoughts of retreating back to his bedroom leave his mind. He takes a seat next to him.

“It looks bad. Did it hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurt. Worse thing I’ve ever felt.”

“Can I touch it?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Arthur moving in to herd Finn away, but he holds up a hand to stop him. He knows Finn doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s just the curiosity of a child. “Carefully, it still hurts sometimes." He lifts the shirt back up on the right side, and watches Finn’s small fingers run along the raised scars. He’s careful, tentatively feeling along.

"What happened?”

“A bullet got me.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“Yeah, Finn, I’m okay. I’m tough, aren’t I? Put up with your uncle, eh?”

Finn laughs and jumps off the table, says he’s going to go play with his friends and runs out of the house. Vincent sighs, watching him go, and makes his way towards his desk. If he knows Finn, the kid won’t let it go that easily. The whole interaction leaves his mind when he sits down to start going through the books, until he stands up to put the ledger away and Finn interrupts him.

“Wait!”

Vincent watches in amusement as Finn rushes over, dragging a chair behind him, and climbs up on it so he can put the ledger away. He nods to himself, satisfied, when he notices that Vincent is still standing there, empty handed, and climbs down off the chair.

“What are you doing, kid? I can put my own work away, you know.”

Finn looks at the ground, hunching his shoulders, and then rushes forward, his words getting muffled when he smashes his face against Vincent’s stomach. “Idon'twantyoutogethurtagainsoIthoughtI'dhelpand-”

“Whoa, take a breath. Want to try that again?”

Finn looks frustrated now.

“I don’t want you to get hurt again, so I thought I’d help and carry things for you so it doesn’t hurt the-” he gestures up at Vincent, towards the scar. Stifling a grin, Vincent nods seriously. “Alright then, you can help me, I just have one more thing I have to pick up.”

“What is it?”

He swoops down and grabs Finn around the waist, hauling him up over his shoulder. “This,” he says, grinning, and digs his fingers into Finn’s ribs, going right for the spot where he knows Finn is the most ticklish.

“Uncle Vinnie, stop!”

Finn can barely get the words out through his giggles, and when Vincent puts him back down on the ground, he’s red in the face and breathless.

“I appreciate the help, but I’m fine, nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“Are you sure?”

Vincent kneels down, so he’s face to face with the young boy, and looks him in the eyes.

“I promise. You’re stuck with me, aren’t you? I’m never going anywhere.”

He almost stumbles back when Finn crashes into him, hugging him around the neck tight enough to bruise, but he stays down, patting Finn on the back softly.

“I love you, Uncle Vinnie.”

“I love you too, Finn. Now let’s go annoy your uncle, hey? You attack from the left, I’ll take the right.”

Arthur never sees them coming.


	3. bleed

“Fuck you.”

The taste of blood doesn’t bother him, it never really had. Dragging him off the street when he was supposed to be meeting Arthur at the Garrison, that pisses him off. If it was important, he’d understand, but not for whatever the hell this is.

“Mister Beckett, it really would be in your best interest to answer my questions.”

He’ll give the men this, they know how to hit. The pain from the punches lingers in his bones, but they’ll have to step their game up if they’re going to get anywhere. The war might have gave him more than enough knowledge about using a gun, but his fists have always been his preferred weapon and this isn’t the first time he’s been beaten black and blue.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The nod to the men behind sets off another round of punches, and he grunts but doesn’t make another sound, just spits on the ground when a well placed hit splits his lip open. He wonders if he looks deranged when he grins afterwards. After that, he loses track of time, bowing his head and breathing through his nose, pretty sure it’s been broken. The hits never stop coming, and eventually the pain blurs together, hard to ignore but he manages. He’s clawed himself back to life, this is nothing.

“What about now?”

He just stares, bleary now, covered in blood, but doesn’t say anything. The officer looks important, with his fancy clothes, here in the city on a mission apparently. Too good to get his own hands dirty, just like the generals that sent them all into the trenches to fight for them. The bullet wound is open again, split at the edges sometime during the delightful interrogation, soaking blood into his shirt. It’s annoying, in that vague, distant way. Arthur had just got him this suit.

“I read in your file that you served. You’re a good man, do you really want to cover up for them?”

He almost laughs, then. Good man? Maybe in another life, when there wasn’t enough blood on his hands that no amount of washing could remove. It really was a pity that he didn’t know what the officer wanted from him, maybe then he could have some idea why he was here in this dark storeroom, bleeding onto the dirty floor.

“Maybe we should ask your friend. Arthur Shelby, wasn’t it?”

He sits up straighter then, eyes suddenly clear, and grits his teeth. As if he’s pleased that he’s gotten a reaction, the officer smiles, and Vincent decides then and there that he hates him.

“If you touch him, I swear to all the gods in the universe, I’ll kill you slowly and make you wish you’d never dared.”


	4. storm

“You know, if you don’t get over here and help me, you don’t get any.”

Vincent looks over his shoulder at Arthur, laying across the bench, and raises an eyebrow. They’d been taking a few days holiday, which apparently was code for christening practically every surface in the small country house, and now here they are, sitting out in the small fenced in porch, making sandwiches at one in the morning, listening to the storm raging on outside.

“No, I think I’m pretty comfortable over here.”

“Oh, you are? I should have told you before, I’m only making enough for myself.”

Arthur grins, nodding slowly.

“Make me a sandwich or I’ll push you outside.”

“I planned on eating all this for myself. And you wouldn’t dare.”

Arthur slips off the bench and moves to stand beside him, putting his hands on his hips. Vincent bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“If you’re trying to be intimidating, dear, you’re not doing it well. I’ll give you points for trying though.”

He takes another bite of his sandwich and swats at Arthur’s hands when he tries to grab it, turning away and laughing when Arthur reaches around him to try and reach it. “Get off me, this is my sandwich.” When Arthur still keeps trying to steal it out of his hands, he shoves the rest of it in his mouth and turns around, smiling sarcastically, cheeks bulging with it.

Quick as a flash, Arthur grabs him by the shoulders, kicks the door open, and pushes him out into the rain. Before he can back away, Vincent grabs him by the wrist and pulls him right out with him. They’re both soaked in a second, rain drenching everything they’ve got on, but Vincent can’t make himself be mad about it.

“You’re an asshole.”

The rain drenches right through his blue shirt, sticking it to his skin, and he tries to push the sodden hair back off his face but the wind just keeps blowing it around, and he can’t stop laughing.

“Well that’s what you get for not giving me a sandwich.”

Arthur turns around and reaches for the door, but Vincent is quicker and grabs his shoulder, stopping him. At this point, there’s nothing that the rain hasn’t soaked, right down to their socks.

“Stay with me for a minute.”

“We’ll get sick, you silly man.”

He stays though, and tries not to laugh when Vincent slips on the wet grass. Arthur catches him, grabbing him around the waist, keeping him steady. In the distance, thunder rumbles, and Arthur isn’t expecting it when Vincent pulls him in and kisses him. It’s soft, mixing with the rain, and never fails to make Arthur just a little bit weak in the knees, even after all the years. When he pulls back, Vincent presses his forehead into Arthur’s shoulder, just keeping him close, content to just be.

“You make me happy.” The statement is punctuated by another kiss, shorter but just as meaningful, “I fucking love you.”

Arthur’s been through a lot in his life, a lot of significant moments, but this? Standing in the rain, watching the lightning crack across the sky, their arms wrapped around each other, not speaking? This moment is easily the best.


	5. passover

People tend to overlook the fact that Vincent is just as dangerous as the company he keeps, not seeing the threat in front of them because it’s wrapped in coloured sweaters and worn coats. He won’t touch a gun anymore, not after the war, he’ll give them that, but guns have never been how he does things. He’s not much for fighting, either, anymore, but he’ll do it if the situation calls for it, and he knows he’s good at it. His appearance would suggest otherwise.

After the war, it’d taken a long time to settle the feeling beneath his skin that it was all a dream, and he’d wake up in that place, bleeding out into the mud again. He deserves to be comfortable, after all that, and if the colourful sweaters that Ada picks out for him make him breathe a little easier, then he has no problem wearing them even if they make people dismiss him as unimportant. Sticking to the shadows, going unnoticed, that’s always been more his style. But occasionally, someone will make a mistake, forget that he’s there, and think that they’ve gotten away with whatever insane scheme they’ve thought of.

Something about the meeting doesn’t feel right. Since the moment they walked into the room, there’s been something screaming from the back of his mind, that they’re walking into something they might not come back from. He almost stops Arthur and tells him they need to leave, but to do that would be to give it away that he knows, and that could make it much worse. Desperate people were unpredictable. Instead, he sits next to Arthur and keeps his mouth shut, watches everyone in the room carefully.

They’ve never met in person before now, but Vincent has heard enough from his brother in law to know that Alfie Solomons is, apparently, a smart man. Just apparently not smart enough. There’s something dirty going on, he knows it, can feel it like anticipation in the air. It’s the same gut instinct that makes him quickly pitch to the right, as the sound of Solomons saying “Tommy Shelby” echoes through the room, dodging away from the hand that had been reaching for his shoulder. Silver gleams in the light, a razor, and though he tries he’s not quick enough to grab the hand holding it before it connects with his face.

It’s not too deep, but bothersome enough. Easy to ignore, when he’s got his would-be killer in his hands, and Vincent hits him. He hits him in the face, feels the bone shattering under his fist, and then hits him again, and again, until there’s blood dripping from his hands and there’s no way the failed assassin will be getting up again. For a moment, he feels a little unsteady, shaky, but he pushes it back and rushes over towards Arthur. It feels like he’s moving through mud, and then he can’t go any further because a set of strong arms lock around him, holding him back. They resist the struggling, only crushing him tighter and tighter, slowly cutting off his air.

“No! He didn’t do anything, don’t! Let me go!”

He watches, unable to do anything, as the police flood into the room and drag Arthur away. When was the last time he ever felt so powerless? He’s not sure. Maybe never. By the time the arms holding him let him go, the police and Arthur are long gone, too far away for him to reach now. During the war, he’d seen a lot of things, things no person should ever have to see. The memory of Arthur being dragged away from him in handcuffs haunts him far more than anything else ever could. A smart man, Tommy had said. Alfie Solomons is a smart man, don’t underestimate him. It occurs to Vincent then, looking down at the blood on his hands, that he wasn’t the one that underestimated somebody they shouldn’t have.

“Alright? Gonna need to clean that up, aren’t you? Hey, Ollie, get him a towel.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Maybe, in any other situation, Solomons would be intimidating. He’s certainly got the presence for it, the obvious strength, the rumours that he’s half mad. Vincent is sure he tries to be, when Solomons goes still, staring him right in the eyes. It feels a little bit like two dogs vying for dominance; whoever looks away first loses. Vincent has never been the sort of person to be intimidating by anything, but he certainly isn’t going to be, now. Not with Arthur’s yells echoing in his ears, and the bodies of his friends slumped over in their chairs.

“What’d you say?”

“I said I’m going to kill you.”

“Oh, you are, eh? And how, right, are you going to do that?”

Vincent is under no illusions that he could take the considerably larger man in a fair fight. But fair fighting went out the window when this whole fucking night started, and he’s not above using underhanded methods.

“I don’t know. But I will, for what you’ve done to my family. So keep an eye out, mister Solomons, look over your shoulder every once in a while. It might not be now, it might not even be any time soon. But one day, you’re going to look back, and I’m going to be there. And I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”


	6. tags

The scar on Vincent’s chest aches sometimes, when the weather turns particularly cold and wet. It chafes against his clothes now, the linen rubbing almost painfully. Rain is coming down, smattering against the windows, accompanied by the sound of thunder rolling in the distance. He’s uncomfortable. Weddings have never been something he’s accustomed to, especially not big, grand affairs like this one. All the eyes on him, looking at his scars, his shaking hands, the suit that has seen better days. Even Arthur’s steady presence beside him isn’t enough to settle the itchy feeling under his skin.

“No fighting.”

Vincent nods, when Tommy points at him, wants to say that he’d never do that, not today, but he can’t quite make his throat work. It feels a little like mockery, watching his friend marry the love of his life when he knows the same thing will never be possible for him. By the ceremony’s end, he’s got bloody marks on his palms from digging his fingernails in. He doesn’t say anything, wouldn’t dare bring anyone down with him, but Arthur catches on fairly quickly. They’ve been together for years at this point, they know each other’s tells.

“Come on, they’ll do without us for a few minutes,” Arthur says, and leads him out into the gardens with a hand on his shoulder, friendly and innocent for anyone that might be watching. Just two friends, going for a cigarette.

Once they’re outside, away from the other guests, Arthur turns to look at him.

“Alright, now you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.”

He takes the cigarette from Arthur without looking at him, keeping his eyes on the gardens.

“How’s the scar, then?”

“It’ll be fine, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Then what’s wrong, eh? Talk to me, Vin.”

It’s a mess of old fears. He doesn’t care much about people knowing about them, the important ones already do. It’s not about that. It’s the old creeping feeling of not being enough, not being able to give Arthur everything he deserves. They’ve had this argument before, but he can never fully banish it from his mind.

“Linda looks nice tonight.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, too perceptive not to know what he’s really saying, and looks around to make sure they’re hidden before he backs Vincent into the wall. The bricks bite into his back, rough on the exposed parts of his arms.

“Right. If I wanted a woman, I could go out and get one, couldn’t I?”

“You should.”

He stares back at Arthur, cigarette ignored in his fingers, and tries to swallow around the lump in his throat because it’s true. Life would be easier for Arthur if he turned around and went to find Linda. He’d stop having to make excuses, wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder all the time.

“I thought by now, you’d know that no one tells me what to do. Now, you listen to me. You were the only thing that got me through the war, I refused to give up because I knew you’d be waiting for me, just like you knew I was waiting for you.”

Arthur presses his hand against Vincent’s chest, right where he knows the picture still lives, in the pocket on the inside of his coat. The movement shakes the tags around his neck, matches to the ones that hang around Arthur’s. If anyone were to see them, it’d be difficult to explain away their closeness, when Arthur is looming into him. There’s barely any space between them, only just enough for the hand pressed against his scar.

“These are mine,” he says, shifting his hand to curl his fingers around the tags on the chain, lightly, “These are mine, and these are yours.” Arthur drags his own tags out from underneath his shirt, lets them hang against his shirt, metal glinting in the light. “You wear mine, and I wear yours, yeah? This is it for me.”

Tears sting the corners of his eyes.

“You want to be married? Vin, we already are, in every way that counts. Because I belong to you, and you belong to me, and fuck everyone else.”


	7. drunk

Vincent doesn’t drink. It’s a fact that gets him more than a few strange looks, sitting in the Garrison with his family, a glass of lemonade sitting on the table in front of him among all the whiskey and rum. There’s small exceptions, of course. Toasts, he’ll join, like he’s done at countless weddings before, but he knows his limits. It messes with his head, makes everything too hazy, makes the memories come back too strong. He doesn’t mind that everyone else does. After this many years, he’s gotten used to it.

“Take him home, will you?”

“I’ve got it.”

It must look comical, Vincent hauling Arthur up out of his chair and out into the night like a limp puppet. There’s a few stumbles at first, but he gets one arm around Arthur’s waist and holds onto Arthur’s wrist with the other, pulling his arm up and over his shoulder.

“Hey, Vin, I didn’t know you were coming out tonight.” It’s only years of experience that let him decipher the words being slurred in his ear.

“I wasn’t, but I heard that you needed some help getting home.”

“Nonsense, I only had a few, didn’t I? Just a bittle lit.”

He laughs so hard he almost drops Arthur in the gutter. “A bittle lit, is that right?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a few. You should have come with us, would’ve been fun.”

“Looks like you had fun without me, Art.”

It’s getting increasingly difficult to keep moving when there’s Arthur’s gesturing hands flying every which way, narrowly missing hitting him in the face more than once. “Well, yeah, but everything is more fun when you’re there, isn’t it? You make everything better. You look good tonight. Is that a new sweater? I didn’t know you could knit.”

“I can’t, Arthur, me and Ada went shopping.”

“You should learn how to knit! Then you could make those, you know, long things, keep you warm?”

“Scarves?”

“Scarves! You could make scarves! And then we can all wear matching scars-”

“Scarves.”

“Matching scarves!”

Thank god for small mercies. He’s managed to get them both to the house in one piece. He props Arthur up against the wall, so he can open the door, and has to keep pushing him back when he sways forward.

“Come here, I have to tell you a secret.”

“Hold on, let’s get inside first.”

“No, I have to tell you now.”

If he thought getting Arthur home was the hard part, trying to wrestle him through the door and up the staircase into the bedroom is the true difficulty. The first few stairs go well, considering. Then Arthur slips backwards into him, smacking an elbow into his ribs, and starts giggling. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, through his laughter. Vincent has given up on trying to make him keep his voice down. If Arthur’s yelling didn’t wake everyone up, their heavy footsteps would.

“Alright, keep going, giggles, we’re almost there.”

“Vin!”

The way Arthur gasps, like there’s something horrible he just remembered, does not match the way he spins around, almost pitching over the railing, and says “Hey, you haven’t heard my secret yet!”

“Alright, let’s just get into bed, then you can tell me anything you want, love.”

The last few steps to the bedroom feel like a mile. Arthur’s not even helping anymore, just clinging to him and apparently content to be dragged along. It means that he’s not fighting, either, so it’s easy to shove him down onto the bed and start working on his buttons. It seems like not even all the drink can take away Arthur’s humour, because when Vincent starts working on the buttons of his suit, he looks down and grins, says “Hey, buy me a drink first, I’m not that kind of woman, mister Beckett.” He’ll never admit it, but he pouts when Vincent doesn’t answer him. Eventually, with minimal help from Arthur, Vincent gets the suit off him and one of Vincent’s jumpers on him, even though it’s too small and the sleeves are far too short.

“Alright, tell me your secret.”

It’s warm, in the bed, huddled together under the thick woollen blanket, a welcome contrast to the coldness outside. Up this close, almost nose to nose, he can see the haziness in Arthur’s eyes. It feels wrong, somehow, to speak properly, so he whispers instead. “I promise I’ll never tell a soul.”

Arthur just looks at him, for long minutes, breathing softly. He’ll ignore the way it smells like rum. If it wasn’t for the fact that Arthur’s eyes were open, flicking to different parts of his face like he was trying to carve Vincent’s face into his memory, he would have thought Arthur had fallen asleep.

“You want to know my secret?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

Arthur’s fingers, clumsy as they might be, pull at the chain around Vincent’s neck, dragging the tags up over his undershirt, and then curls around the metal, still cold but warming from body heat.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. God, I fucking love you.”


	8. shot

His mother used to tell him that happy endings were for fairy tales and songs, that it wasn’t how the real world worked. Vincent doesn’t remember much about his mother, but he remembers that. It sticks with him for a long time, until he forgets what her voice sounds like, and the memory of her face fades into nothing in his mind. There’s nothing left of her now except the dress that hangs in his closet, dusty and pale like a ghost.

“Why don’t we go down to the creek today, give your parents a bit of quiet?” The children are yelling their agreement before he even finishes talking, and he grins, corralling the group of kids out of the house with repeated promises that he’ll look after them, yes John he knows how to swim, they’ll be fine. The water is a bit cold, but it warms up quick enough under the rare sunny day, and the river isn’t too deep. A few kids are already there, and it’s not long before he finds himself in the water with kids hanging off him like monkeys.

“Bet you that you can’t do a handstand.”

Just like he knew it would, the challenge is met with assurances that they can, and the sight of dozen of skinny little legs sticking up out of the water is enough to make him fall over in laughter, landing in the mud, taking Katie with him, dunking the girl under the water while she giggles. In retaliation, she picks up a handful of mud and throws at him, hitting him in the chest. “Oh, that was a mistake.” Everything devolves into chaos then, mud flying every which way, teams being formed pretty quickly. Apparently that means the kids against Vincent, because they gang up on him and cover him in as much mud as they can, all of them running away from him so he can’t dunk them under, gleeful screams filling the air when he catches one.

He almost misses the sound of rumbling cars driving the down the road to the house, the one that runs down on the other side of the creek, just far enough away that he knows they haven’t been seen. Something about the way they drive slowly, like they’re trying not to be heard, doesn’t sit right. He’s got eight kids with him, he can’t leave them out in the open, alone. He can’t take them with him, either, not if he’s right and something is about to go horribly wrong.

“Hey, we’re going to play hide and seek, yeah? I’ll cover my eyes, all you go hide, and I’ll come and find you in five minutes. No hiding in the water, and stay away from the house. Don’t come out for anything, unless it’s me. Ready? Go!”

He can hear the sound of everyone getting out of the water, rushing to find hiding spots, giggling as they go. After a few long moments of covering his eyes, he can’t hear anything anymore and figures that it’s safe as it’s going to be. The distance to the house isn’t short, maybe a mile or two, but he makes it in record time, and scares Esme when he bursts into the kitchen, soaking wet and tracking mud and sticks behind him. “Get down into the cellar, take everyone with you,” he says, and for once, she doesn’t argue. Maybe it’s the seriousness on his face, but she listens immediately and he follows to make sure she locks the door, then goes to find John.

His feet hurt, from the stones and sticks, but it’s not important. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach, and then he can hear his mother’s voice like she’s standing right beside him. ‘Happy endings belong in children’s books, Vinnie.’ He can almost feel her hands on his shoulders, the ghost of fingers curling into his shirt.

“You couldn’t have cleaned up?”

“Shut up, just get inside.”

“What’s going on? Where’s the kids, aren’t you supposed to be watching them?”

He’d forgotten how frustrating Shelbys could be when they wanted to be.

“John, shut the fuck up and listen. Something’s wrong, we need-”

The first bullet hits the side of the house and almost blasts the window into pieces. He grabs John and yanks him backwards, into the house, and shoves him towards the back of the house. Vincent is fast, faster than people would expect, but he’s never going to be faster than a bullet. The first gets him in the leg, somewhere in the vicinity of his thigh, and it knocks him down to his knees. Then there’s a third, and a fourth, maybe more, he’s not exactly keeping count when he can’t breathe through the old, familiar taste of blood in his mouth. It hurts, and it only gets worse when John drags him out of the way, into the next room, a little further away from the bullets spraying the front of the house.

“Vincent, what the fuck! Hey, look at me.”

John slaps him, when his eyes start to close, hard and sharp, and desperately presses his hands to the blood that’s soaking through the old shirt he’s wearing. It’s too big, hangs halfway down his thighs because he’d stolen it from Arthur, but it’s comforting. “Vin, keep your fucking eyes open, you can’t go anywhere, alright?” Sometime between blinks, the sound of guns have stopped, and Esme has dropped to the carpet at John’s side, looking pale and shaken.

“John’s right, Vin, you’ve got to go home with Arthur, remember? He’s waiting for you, you’re not going to make him wait.”

His breaths are mostly coughs, by now, and when he grins, his teeth are smeared with red. “You’ll look after him, won’t you, John?” Esme’s ripped his shirt open, and she’s cursing to herself when she looks at him, but she still pushes down hard on the holes, trying to slow the flow of blood. “He needs someone to look after him.”

“Shut the fuck up, you’re going to look after him yourself, you hear me? Can somebody call a fucking ambulance!”

**

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks up, away from the book he’s been writing in, and looks up at Lizzie. She’s standing in the doorway, Tommy at her side, and they both look serious. Which isn’t saying much, but there’s something different about it this time.

“Everything alright?”

“Arthur, John just called. The house was attacked.”

He can’t stop himself from clenching his fist around the pen he’s holding, knuckles going white. No, Vincent is fine, he can take care of himself. He’d like to believe it, but the way Lizzie can’t look him in the eyes makes a sick feeling start in his chest.

“Is everyone okay? John, Esme, the kids? Where’s Vincent?”

“Arthur, sit down.”

“Why would I need to sit down?”

“There were men, with machine guns. The kids are safe, but-”

“Just tell me he’s alright. Tell me, Tommy.”


	9. recovery

There’s an old song that he remembers hearing, when he was young. He can’t remember where he heard it, but for reasons unknown to him, it’s what he hears when the sound of John and Esme yelling at him fade away. Is he singing along with it? He doesn’t know, but he remembers all the words, about a blackbird and being free. Something about becoming a king. It sounds good to him.

“I love you. I’m going to be right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

He’s heard that your life flashes through your mind, before you die. Well, this is the second time he’s been in this situation, and he doesn’t remember anything like that. There’s no slow motion replay of all his memories, there isn’t anything except the darkness, so thick and crushing that it feels like he could suffocate in it. He’s never told anyone, but he’s always been afraid of the dark, and the things that lurk just out of sight. He figures he must not be dead yet, because he can still think, so his brain hasn’t shut itself down. Not yet, at least.

“You really got yourself into trouble this time. Fight it, like I know you can. Karl misses his uncle.”

He wonders what they’re going to do without him. Not that they’re going to fall to pieces without him, he’s not arrogant enough to believe that he’s that important, but he knows it’s going to break Arthur maybe further than anyone can bring him back from. They’ve got plans, things they’d always talked about doing. A house out in the country, nothing big, just a little cottage. Room for a big garden, maybe some animals, goats probably. Vincent has always liked goats. A dog or two. Plans that won’t ever be realised, now. Still. He knows that they’ll look after Arthur for him, as best as they can, and what more could he ask for, really.

“Vin, you have to wake up. He’s falling apart without you.”

The pain is coming back, now, in fits and starts. It centres in the middle of his spine and spreads outwards like a wave, until it feels like jagged knives are digging into every inch of his body and twisting slowly, or being slowly submerged in acid that burns away the layers of his skin, one agonising area at a time. He still can’t breathe, not properly, dragging air down his throat feels like swallowing razor blades. He takes back everything he said about being shot that day, in France. This is the worst thing he’s ever felt. If he screams, he can’t hear it, but he feels a burn in his throat like he’s been yelling himself hoarse.

“Come back to us. You promised, remember? Arthur can’t do this without you.”

There would have been room in that small country cottage for a kid of their own. Well, not their own, not really, but the distinction doesn’t matter. He’d always wanted a family of his own, even though he was sure, for the longest time, that he’d never get one. There’s something about him that kids seem to flock to, and he’s always thought he’d be a good father. He and Arthur haven’t talked about it, not directly, but there’s been enough subtle hints from both of them that he was pretty sure it would happen eventually. If it didn’t, he wouldn’t have been bothered. He had more than enough nieces and nephews to spoil.

“Uncle Vinnie? Can you hear me? I brought your favourite books, so you have something to do when you wake up.”

Sometimes, when the sounds of gunfire and screaming got too loud in his head, he’d curl up into himself under the bed. The roughness of the bare wood was comforting, in a strange way, but it was more because down there was cool, and quiet, and he could hide from everything. The first few times, Arthur had gotten confused, kneeling down on the rug to look at him with a frown, ask what he was doing, but he adapts to it eventually. They all had their coping mechanisms, chased away the ghosts of the war in their own ways. When it happens, Arthur sits on the floor, within touching distance, and reads. It doesn’t matter what, but the sound of his voice is soothing, and helps Vincent come out of the terrors he’ll never be able to shake completely.

“Esme wanted me to give you these flowers, and to tell you that she’s sorry she hasn’t been in, but someone has to look after the kids.”

It’s too bright when he opens his eyes. The sterile whiteness that could only be a hospital. It stings, and he has to blink a few times to clear the spots away so he can see properly. The first thing he looks at is down at his body, covered in tight white bandages that stain pink from blood in a dozen different places. The second thing he looks at is the chair next to the bed he’s laying on, and the man sitting it, face hidden behind a newspaper. Arthur’s still wearing the same clothes that Vincent remembers him wearing that day, however long ago it was. It doesn’t surprise him that Arthur’s refused to leave his side.

“You look like shit. I’m the one that got shot.”

He watches in amusement as Arthur practically throws the newspaper over his shoulder, totally forgotten in a second.

“How long have I-”

“Three weeks. Everyone’s been in to see you.”

“I can tell.”

Almost every surface of the small room is covered in various things; flowers, a small pile of his favourite books, a few stuffed bears in the mix.

“They said you might not make it. When you didn’t wake up. I thought-”

“Hey,” Vincent can’t move properly, not yet, but he reaches out and grabs Arthur’s hand in his. It hurts, pulling at the stitches the doctors must have put in at some point, but he doesn’t care. “It takes more than that to keep me down, remember?”

“Don’t you ever do that to me again. It almost killed me.”

“Don’t get shot again? I think I can manage that.”

Arthur frowns at him, and when he looks, really looks, he can see the redness around Arthur’s eyes, the fresh tears that gather in the corners of his eyes.

“No, I mean it. I can’t do any of this without you with me, alright? I fucking love you. There is no me if there’s no you.”


	10. ring

There’s something calming about sitting around the fire while the storm rages on outside, listening to the sound of rain pounding against the roof. About an hour before, the power had blown out, but the fire is bright enough to see by and it’s warm. There’s not enough seats for everyone, it’s rare that everyone is together these days, but they manage. They’re nothing if not adaptable. John and Esme have commandeered one of the armchairs, sprawled across it in a mess of limbs, and the kids are piled around them on the floor, talking in whispers to each other, flinching slightly when the thunder claps too loudly.

Everyone else is scattered throughout the room, in their own chairs or sprawled across the ground. Vincent is stretched across the couch, advantages of still recovering from being shot, and Arthur is wedged in behind him, legs bracketing his body, fingers running through his hair. It’s rare that they don’t have anything important to do, so it’s nice to just relax. He can’t remember the last time they’d all been in the same place, without arguments, at least.

“Everything alright? Stitches not pulling?”

He tilts his head back and looks up at Arthur.

“I’m fine, if anything changes I’ll let you know.”

“See that you do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Truthfully, the stitches have been itching all day, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s been dutiful about using the salve that the doctor had given him, so he knows there’s no infection, it’s just irritation. It’s a familiar routine, from the last time. He still wouldn’t have changed anything about that day. Loyal to a fault, he’s been called, and that might be the case, but he wasn’t going to let anything happen to his family, not if he could help it. A choice between almost certain death and saving John’s life? He’d choose the same outcome every time. Slowly, in groups a few at a time, the room slowly empties with everyone heading to bed, until it’s just him and Arthur left. Polly goes last, and tells them to put the fire out before they leave.

“Should we head up too, then? You need rest.”

“Soon. I’m comfortable.”

Silence fills the room, except for the soft crackling of the fire, until Arthur speaks up again.

“I have something that I need to ask you.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No?”

“Then ask away.”

There’s a shifting from behind him, Arthur moving to grab something out of his pocket.

“I’m going to need you to just be quiet for a while, alright?”

He just nods.

“Okay. Good. Now, I’ve never been good with words, so just- Give me a minute. Seeing you in that hospital bed was the scariest time of my life, and I understand why you did it, and I’m not grateful for it, but I fucking hated it. I could’ve lost you, and I don’t know what I would have done if I had, but it wouldn’t have been good. It’s not- I’m the oldest, so this was given to me, after my mother died. It can’t be official, and I hate it, but I want you to have it anyway, because it’s as good as to me, and- I don’t know, we swapped tags, but it’s supposed to go to whoever I marry, and that’s never going to be anyone but you.”

It might be the most words he’s ever heard Arthur say at one time, and happens in bursts, like he’s trying to rush the words out before his nerves get the best of him. Arthur unhooks the chain from around his neck and threads one side through the ring before he clips it back together. The ring is heavy, heavier than the tags, and feels solid against Vincent’s chest.

“What do you say?”

“Well. I think Vincent Shelby has a nice ring to it. Arthur Beckett just doesn’t feel right.”


	11. stay

It’s a strange experience, being in a room with the kind of people wouldn’t have looked twice at him if they saw him in the street. The rich are a different breed, he’s come to understand, willfully blind to the poverty right in front of them. He hadn’t even wanted to come, tried all he could think of to get out of it, but there’s always trouble hiding in the shadows waiting for the right time to strike, and it’s not like he had anything better to do. Apparently he’s a bodyguard, these days.

“Stop fidgeting, you look uncomfortable.”

“I am uncomfortable.”

“Well, that’s obvious, but they don’t have to know that, do they?”

It takes an immense amount of willpower not to roll his eyes, but he does try to relax. It probably doesn’t work. Circling slowly around the room, talking about things that don’t matter with people with more money than sense will never be Vincent’s idea of a good time. He’d even tried to bribe Esme into saying that she needed him to stay back to help with the kids, but she’d just waved him off at the door with an entirely unwarranted smirk on her face. Rude woman. He adores the fuck out of her.

“I’ll get us a drink.”

Arthur disappears into the crowd before he can remind him that he doesn’t drink, slipping in between the people drifting from group to group. Alright, he reasons with himself, one won’t hurt, and it’s a special occasion, after all. He almost throws an elbow back when someone grabs him by the shoulders, but it’s only Michael and he stops himself just in time.

“I thought I’d rescue you, you look bored out of your mind.”

“Thank god. If I have to suffer through one more conversation with these people, I just might throw myself out that window.”

Vincent hasn’t spent much time with Michael, staying back while he tries to fit into the family that, until a few months ago, he never knew he had. He remembers how it felt to try and find his own place among them, all those years ago, and it hadn’t been easy. The war had made them all shadows of their former selves, suspicious of everything and everyone. Their interactions have mostly been limited to brief conversations back at the offices.

“Well, consider yourself rescued from having to take the jump.”

“Where’s Pol?”

“Somewhere around. I lost her about an hour ago.”

Talking with Michael is surprisingly easy, easier than he thought he would be, and when Arthur doesn’t come back with the drinks he’s not particularly bothered. He’ll be around somewhere, just like Polly, and disappearing isn’t exactly a strange occurrence for any of them. What isn’t surprising is that he and Michael end up outside, sitting on the steps with cigarettes, swapping stories of dumb things they’d done in their childhoods. More than one person has told Vincent before that he’s strangely easy to talk to, and he likes being the person that everyone can always count on to listen to whatever they need to get off their chests.

“We should probably go back inside, Arthur’s probably wondering where I am. I want to hear more about this apple tree story, later.”

“Only if you promise never to tell a soul.”

Vincent puts his hand on his chest, faking outrage, and says “I would never.” They part ways at the door, going to find their respective missing guest.

It’s strange, when he thinks back on it. All the times that he’s been shot, and he’s never seen it happen to someone else right in front of him, not like this. The sound comes first, echoing around the room. Then he sees Grace tipping, and, well, it’s not hard to figure out what she’s done. Admittedly, he hadn’t been particularly fond of her, not like he is with the other women, but it still makes his heart stop, seeing the bloom of red on the front of her dress, if only for what he knows is going to follow.

“You look like you need this.”

The funeral is long over, and Tommy still stands outside, staring off into the distance at things that exist only in his memory now. Everyone else is inside, watching carefully through the windows, and after an hour he decides to go and stand beside him. Vincent holds out the flask, not saying anything else when Tommy takes it without looking at him. He wouldn’t know what to say, even if Tommy had. There’s nothing he can say that will help, that’s a fact that he’s painfully aware of. For a long time, enough time for the sun to sink down below the horizon, they stand together, and he just waits. For however long it takes.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Tommy sounds like he has to force the words out through a lump in his throat. Maybe he does, it doesn’t matter either way.

“Coming inside would be a good start, I think. It’ll get cold soon.”

The chill has already started to cool the air, cutting through the layers of clothing like knives.

“I can’t. It’s stupid, I know, but if I leave-”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

The grass is wet underneath him when he sits down, soaking through down to his skin, but it’s far from the worst thing he’s ever felt. Tommy looks down at him in confusion, then, finally pulling his eyes away from the gravestone.

“What are you doing?”

“If you’re not coming inside, then I’m not going to leave you outside here by yourself.”

To the people inside, watching them, it must look strange, the two of them sitting in the grass side by side, legs crossed underneath them. Tommy lapses back into silence and Vincent doesn’t interrupt him, that’s not what he’s here for. When he does talk, it’s so quiet that he almost misses it.

“Thank you.”

He shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. If you need me, just remember that I’m right here.”


	12. lunch

“Morning, love. Cup of tea?”

Lizzie looks up at him, and smiles when she sees the two mugs in his hands. It’s their little morning ritual, before everyone else gets in. They sit together at Lizzie’s desk and talk over their cups of tea, just like they’ve been doing for months, and it’s nice. Vincent gets along well with the rest of the employees, but Lizzie is different. His best friend, probably, if he had to put a label on it, the two of them bonding in these quiet moments. Maybe a little because she can reach the shelves that Vincent can’t.

“How was your weekend?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Sat around the house, because no one would dare be seen with me.”

Sometimes, in another world, he thinks, he’d have married her without thinking twice about it. Anyone would be lucky to have her, and if anyone ever does, well he hopes they’re prepared to answer to him if they ever do anything to hurt her. Why anyone wouldn’t want to be around her, soak in all she is, he has no idea.

“You know what? Get your things, we’re leaving.”

“What? We can’t do that, Tommy will have our hides.”

He holds an arm out, and she takes it automatically.

“Of course we can. I’ve been having pains, you see, and I thought I’d go for a drive out to the country. As a dutiful friend, you couldn’t possibly let me go alone. I’ll leave a note.”

“And what are we actually doing?”

The door swings solidly shut behind them, and he locks them before they leave. It’s still early, sun barely risen over the houses around them.

“Taking a beautiful woman to lunch, of course, maybe some shopping. There’s a nice little place in London.”

Lizzie laughs, grinning, and slips into the car when he holds the door open for her.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

“What’s the point of living if you can’t have a bit of fun every now and then?”


	13. razor

Just like they tend to overlook Vincent, people seem to forget pretty quickly that he’s not the harmless person he appears to be. It’s his height, probably, and the disarming appearance, he figures. Who would look at the man that barely cracks 5'4, with the multicoloured knitted sweaters and think ‘That’s a killer’? From past experience, very few people. He can’t be dangerous, look at him, he’s harmless. Couldn’t hurt a fly. That’s why he spends so much time with those Peaky Blinders, isn’t it, hiding behind the protection the name brings.

He likes to be a man of his word. If the promise is something that he can make happen, well then he’ll do whatever he can to ensure that he fulfils his end of the bargain. Promises aren’t something he makes lightly, so when he makes them, it’s almost always a guarantee that it’ll happen, regardless of how long it takes. It might be because he prides himself on being reliable, and available. If they need him, he’s always going to find a way to be there. Even if it almost kills him.

While he was in the hospital, he’d had plenty of time on his hands, and more than enough time to think about his next move. He goes through a million and one plans, ranging from the plausible to the ridiculous just to amuse himself, but in the end he settles on the simplest way. What good is dramatics, when it’s much more effective to just get the job done? No, there’s no need for theatrics. He’s just going to return the favour. He’s a simple man, big displays of anything is unnecessary, in his opinion.

Once he’s gotten away from everyone without anyone suspecting anything, which is the most difficult part, it’s actually startlingly easy to slip into the building between the guard patrols. Apparently they’ve gotten too complacent, too used to not having to worry about an attack. Then again, maybe they’ve been instructed to look out for groups, and Vincent is alone. Whatever the reason is, he gets inside with minimal effort, which is handy because he’s still not fully healed, yet. The shot to the leg has been giving him trouble, and while he’s sure that climbing in through a window is possible, he’d rather not.

“I did warn you.”

The silver shines in the light, just like that night, only now it’s in his hands instead of coming for his throat. Well, it shines until he presses it into Solomons neck, the sharp edge dangerously close to the vein that runs down his neck. Solomons sits up straighter, and slowly puts his pen down.

“I told you, one day, I was going to be here. If you’ve asked around, then you know that when I say something, I mean it.”

“Full of surprises, aren’t you? Here to kill me, then? You’ve gotten much closer than anyone else ever has, I’m surprised.”

It’s tempting, so tempting, to just jerk his hand and let the other man to bleed out on the desk, to watch as he chokes on his own blood, but he doesn’t.

“I thought about it. Right now, it would be easy. But you know what? You’re not worth it. I’m better than that, even if it wouldn’t be any worry to me. Instead, I’m going to leave, and you’re going to let me. And you won’t do anything to my family ever again.”

He doesn’t hear the laugh as much as he feels it, rumbling through the razor and up his arm. The reaction isn’t what he expected, but he knows the result will be the same either way. There’s a lot of time to think, when you’re confined to a bed for weeks, and he’s thought out his actions carefully.

“I am? You break into my office, right, hold a razor to my throat, and I’m just going to let you walk away? I’ve killed men for less, what makes you think I won’t break your neck as soon as you take that razor away?”

Vincent leans down, keeping his hand steady on the handle of the straight razor, and speaks right into Solomons’ ear.

“Because you’re not a stupid man, mister Solomons. Like you said, I broke into your office, and here I am, holding a razor to your throat. Imagine what I could do if I had better weapons, like the bomb on a timer ready to bring this whole building down if I don’t turn it off in five minutes. Or maybe I’d come back with something else. You’d never see me coming, just like you never saw this.”

“Hmm.”

“So I want you to remember this moment. The time I could have slit your throat and been back in my bed before anyone found you. The fact that you continue to breathe is because of my decency, nothing else. If you do anything to my family, I will be back. I’ll slip in unnoticed, just like I did today, and next time I won’t be so nice.”

He’s got Solomons, and he’s well aware of it. Right now, he’ll be wondering how he could have overlooked Vincent, like so many often do. Somewhere, a mistake has been made, he’ll be realising, how is it that everyone had dismissed him as a threat when he just might be the biggest one of them all.

“Do we have an agreement, or am I leaving here with a ruined shirt?”

“We’ve got an agreement,” Solomons says, and he doesn’t sound happy about it. He’s angry, it’s almost palpable, but he’s telling the truth. Vincent knows that no one will be following him, not with the threat of the building being blown sky-high in three minutes and counting.

“You’d risk me going back on it, just to protect your family?”

“There’s no limit to what I’d do to protect them, mister Solomons. Not many people find that out until it’s too late.”

He pulls the razor back, but doesn’t fold it away.

“Before I go, there’s one more thing I have to do.”

With a quick movement, he flicks the razor down and out, cutting through the cotton of Solomons shirt and into his collarbone, not so deep that it would be a fatal cut, but deep enough that there’s always going to be a scar, as a reminder.

“I couldn’t let you get away with nothing. Billy was a good friend.”


	14. punch

He knows what the other man thinks of him as soon as he sees the slow, unimpressed look. It’s not unfamiliar, and he’s apparently a good enough actor to keep the snarl off his face. Over the years he and Arthur have been together, they’ve never talked about the father that ran and left them to fend for themselves, but he’s observant enough to put the pieces together himself. If there’s anyone that he’s ever hated, truly despised right down to his bones, it’s the man sitting across the table from him.

“Who’s this, then?”

“Vincent. He does the books for us. Among other things.”

If it were any other situation, he’d be staring holes in the side of Arthur’s head. Instead, he lets it go and just nods, matching the blank stare that Arthur Senior is giving him, not about to be intimidated in his own home. Tommy’s eyes flick between them, quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. Polly doesn’t either.

“Other things, eh? It must not be anything too dangerous, looks like a stiff breeze could snap him in half.”

John is staring intently down at the table like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, but he can’t stop the twitch in fingers at the all-too-obvious challenge in his father’s voice. For a second, Vincent considers letting it go, knows that it’ll cause a fight between him and Arthur later if he doesn’t, but he can’t. More than a little bit of it might be misplaced rage from the father he never got to meet because he’d walked out on a four months pregnant woman. He turns his head to look at his husband, who’s avoiding his eyes.

“Why don’t we show him the rings, have a few rounds? Could be fun.”

The man sitting across from him doesn’t know him, so while it might sound to him like a friendly suggestion, the rest of the room are more used to reading into what he’s really feeling. It’s not much, a twitch of his fingers, small twist of his mouth, but it equals the same thing. Someone is going to get hurt today.

“I don’t think-”

“Sounds like an idea, lead the way boys.”

Polly frowns at being talked over, but doesn’t try to stop them again, and the three of them, her, John and Tommy, watch them leave.

“I’ll get the bandages ready.”

Down at the gym, there’s already a crowd milling around, cheering on the two men inside the ropes. It’s been a long time since Vincent was in a place like this, but it’s just as familiar as he remembers, just as comfortable. Money had been hard to come by, growing up, and it was join the fights or starve, try to win enough to buy something to eat and not get killed in the process.

“How about a bet? Winner gets to decide what the loser has to do.”

Arthur is watching them warily, standing further away than he normally would, like he’s trying to get away from the storm that he knows is coming. His father looks at Vincent, amused, and a little begrudgingly impressed at his bravado, then shrugs.

“Sounds good to me.”

“Good. Frank, we’ve got next.”

Slipping between the ropes feels like coming home, in a way.

“Remember the rules, when someone’s out, you stop.”

Maybe.

They’ve got a bigger crowd now, the room getting quieter like they can sense Vincent’s mood, and though he can’t see him, he knows Arthur is there somewhere, watching. Vincent should have told Frank to distract him somehow. What happens next isn’t going to be pretty, and it’s not going to be fast either. Of the very few stories that Arthur has told him, he knows that his father was a formidable fighter. But he doesn’t have the rage that sits in Vincent’s chest, burning his throat.

At first, it’s just light jabs, feeling the other out. Then he’s done playing games. His first punch is a test, telegraphing the movement before he makes it, and isn’t surprised when he misses. It wasn’t meant to connect. He can’t hear anything above the pounding in his ears, once he gets into the familiar movements, taking as many hits as he gives. The older Arthur is strong, punches driving the air out of Vincent’s lungs when they land, but he’s nothing if not resilient. Or maybe stubborn, depending on who you ask. It gets bloody, fast.

“Not as much as a delicate flower as you look, are you?”

When he was younger, before he’d used his fists for money, before the fever took his mother away, she was always getting on him about fighting with other kids, lecturing him about coming home with bruises on his face and blood on his clothes. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that he’s never the one that starts the fights. “You’ve got the devil inside you, Vincent Beckett,” she’d say, while shaking her head.

It’s easy to breathe through the pain, pushing it down into that part of his brain where he keeps the memories of the war, locking it away and separating it from himself as well as he possibly can. How long have they been here? An hour, maybe more. He doesn’t know. Time has always seemed to run slower inside the ropes, like everything outside of it ceases to exist. Long enough that his shoulders ache, a deep burn that only builds up with every minute that passes.

“Just go down, kid. It’ll be better for you if you do.”

It’s not even a matter of pride, not anymore. He’s pretty sure that fell by the wayside when he spat blood out onto the mat and kept going. In a way, however abstract, he guesses it’s because this fight, that he knows is going to get him more than a few nights of sleeping on the couch, is about Arthur. He’s not property, but in the animal part of Vincent’s mind, the winner gets to keep him. Unfortunately, for who, he isn’t sure yet, Arthur’s the one thing that he’ll never give up without all the fight he’s got in him, and that’s not a small amount.

“Winner gets to make the loser has to do,” he whispers to himself, and hits Arthur Senior in the jaw, snapping his head to the side, and there, that’s his opening. The other man brings a hand up, just for a second, to press into what might be a fracture judging by the give he’d felt underneath his knuckles, but it’s more than enough time to get through his defence. Like he’d predicted, it’s not pretty, and it’s certainly bloody. Most people forget that he’s not just short, he’s fast, and the split second of dropping guard has given Vincent all the advantage.

The feeling of ribs cracking underneath his fists still feels the same, like a wet snap that drives every bit of breath from your lungs. Three, maybe four, bones snapping like hardwood. Ribs, nose, wrist too judging by the crunch that echoes when he deflects the wildly aimed punch with one of his own. Everything has faded now, except this, and the thought in his mind that he’s got to win, there’s no other alternative, Arthur’s his and he’s going to keep him even if it means flying over the line rather than just crossing it.

“Vincent, stop! He’s done, you’re going to kill him.”

Arms drag him backwards, away from the man on his knees, even as he keeps trying to get away, to finish the job. Faintly, he can hear someone yelling at him, but he can’t hear the words, until a hand slaps him, hard enough to split his lip open. Arthur is suddenly there, looking down at him, hands on either side of his face.

“It’s over, you’re done. Jesus fucking Christ. Me and you, we’re going to have a talk about this later.”

“Did I win?”

It’s amusing, the way Arthur throws his hands up like an exasperated housewife. Well, it would be if his whole body wasn’t aching.

“You almost fucking killed him. He’s down, you won.”

He won. He won the bet.

It takes effort to stand back up, and everyone watches him carefully when he walks towards his father in law, sitting on the mat in the other corner with his hand pressed to the ribs that have already started bruising deep purple.

“Where the hell did they find you?”

Vincent bends down, as painful as it is, until he’s in Arthur Senior’s line of sight, and looks at him seriously. There’s an endless amount of things he could make the other man do, but there’s only one that he’d ever use.

“I won. And you’re going to leave. Not tomorrow, not on the weekend. You’re going to leave today, and you’re not going to come back. Because next time, I won’t stop.”


	15. russian

When he woke up this morning, the last thing he thought he’d be doing is standing naked, being checked for tattoos by two Russian women. At least there’s never a dull day, with these people. He almost laughs right along with John at the way Arthur stares through the window and tries not to react, but bites his lip to stop himself and turns his head away. The scars on his body are out on full display, which makes him more uncomfortable than the nakedness does, but it’s not like the women haven’t seen their share of war wounds before.

“Is he breathing?”

John’s innocent question make him shake with the effort to keep from laughing out loud, and he has to bite down on his knuckle and squeeze his eyes shut to keep it in. This isn’t the strangest situation he’s ever been in, not by a long shot, but apparently it is for his rigid husband, standing like he’s a statue carved from marble.

“Well. That was an experience.”

He and John stifle laughter at the still hilariously shocked look on Arthur’s face as they follow the women down winding halls, buttoning their shirts as they walk, and he nudges Arthur with his elbow.

“Calm down, you can start breathing any minute now.”

He’s not completely surprised at the room they’re led into, not like the two that look around in mixed expressions of wonder and confusion. Nothing can really surprise him anymore, not after everything that’s happened. He ends up squashed onto a couch beside Arthur, and signals the servants wandering around for a bottle of vodka. The reason why he’s here is still unclear, but he might as well have some fun with it. Passing one of the glasses to Arthur, who looks like he needs it, and slams his own shot back. Normally, he’d stay away from the alcohol, but well, it’s been a long week and why not.

It doesn’t take long for John to disappear, hidden somewhere in the haze of smoke that hangs in the air like fog, and Tommy had went his own way as soon as they’d entered the room.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur looks at him like he’s insane, and gestures to the room in general, not saying anything yet, but Vincent gets it. It would be a shock to someone experience it for the first time. “Have another drink,” he says, and refills both their glasses. Later, when he thinks back on it, it’ll be amusing, the amount of women he has to send away with a blank stare, but it’s just annoying while it’s happening. They’re persistent, he’ll give them that, but their persistence will never outweigh Vincent’s possessiveness.

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“There’s always time for exceptions, and if there was ever a situation that called for it, it’d be this one.”

He rolls his head back towards the ceiling, stretching the stiff muscles, and takes a drink directly from the bottle before he passes it back to Arthur. The silence lasts for a few minutes before he laughs again, wheezing something out about the naked tattoo finding situation and grunts when Arthur elbows him hard in the ribs. When he turns his head, Arthur doesn’t look happy, but Vincent can see the smile he’s fighting, and points at him. “Admit it, you were scared of my reaction.”

“Even if that were true, and it’s not, I’d never admit it.”

He grins at Arthur around the cigarette in between his lips. “You just keep telling yourself that, love.”

Maybe an hour passes. The more he drinks the more he loses track of time, and he’s slowly getting more bored. As amusing as watching Arthur stare at everything around him, wide eyed, was, it loses it’s appeal after a while. Until he sighs, and swings a leg over Arthur’s waist to settle on his lap, and then Arthur’s eyes are wide for a completely different reason.

“I’m bored.”

“I can see that.”

Arthur’s hair is soft under his fingers when he slides them through the short strands, messing it up even more than it already was. He hums, shifting to get comfortable.

“And this is a big house.”

“Yes.”

Their casual tone doesn’t match the way Arthur’s hands tighten around his hips, fingernails digging in when Vincent pulls on his hair, not gentle at all, and he laughs again.

“Want to go find a room, then?”

“God yes.”

John salutes them when they slip past, a smirk on his face, and Arthur glares at him in return.

Yeah, he won’t be seeing either of them for a few hours.


	16. belong

He’d wanted the house out in the country, with the animals and the gardens, but not like this. The house is too quiet, even with the chickens and the goats, and Billy. It’s hard to adjust to the sudden lack of noise, too used to the constant sounds that came with everyone living in the same house, not a moment that wasn’t filled with someone making a racket somewhere. He hates that it took everything going to shit to get it, and that it feels like it’s slowly stretching into an ever widening void between him and Arthur.

They still talk, they sleep in the same bed, and there’s never any arguments, but the easy intimacy is gone, evaporated like it was never there. It feels like they’re just clinging to each other out of familiarity than anything, these days. Billy makes it easier, their little boy acting like an unsuspecting buffer between them, but it’s still difficult. He’s not built for the domestic, mundane life, that much quickly becomes apparent. Maybe his mother was right, maybe he does have the devil inside him, because every day that passes where nothing happens and nothing changes takes a little bit more of him away.

He feels guilty, maybe slightly ashamed, when Arthur tells him about John’s call, shows him the letter, and a part of him is thankful for the thrill of the danger. It’s not a good life to raise a child in, he knows that, but it’s what he’s good at, what it feels like he was born to do, and if he continues to live the normal, domestic family life, it just might kill him. Ada looks at him like she knows what he’s thinking, like she can see into his brain, and her eyes go hard as if she doesn’t like what she sees. He loves Ada, he does, but she’d never understand. Vincent takes Billy when Arthur walks Ada out to the waiting car, and alternates between listening intently to the babbling that his son is doing, talking back to him like he’s telling the most fascinating story Vincent has ever heard, and watching Arthur talk with his sister.

“You’re good with him. I always knew you’d be a good father.”

Arthur’s standing in the doorway, watching him tuck Billy into his bed, and Vincent can tell by the look Arthur gives him that Ada has spoken to him. If there’s any better indicator than the small frown Arthur gives him that the talk they’re about to have is going to be a long one, he doesn’t know what it could be. He softly shuts Billy’s bedroom door behind him and walks down the stairs to the kitchen, Arthur following behind, neither of them saying anything. It’s going to be a whiskey conversation, and he pours both of them a drink.

He’s so tired, all of a sudden, watching Arthur watching him, like they’re nothing more than two strangers rather than partners that have a son together, sleeping right upstairs. Fuck, he can’t even remember when the last time they touched was.

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

It used to be that he could read Arthur like a book, know what he was thinking by the tiny changes in his tone, in his eyes. Looking at him now is like staring at a blank faced statue. The truth. A loaded sentence if he’s ever heard one. The truth is, he loves the man sitting across from him so fucking much that it hurts, and that he’d never say anything about what he’s been feeling because Arthur’s been happy here, and he’d never do anything to take anything that made Arthur happy away from him. The truth is that he doesn’t know if Arthur loves him anymore, after the prison and the noose.

“Is this who we are, now? Avoiding each other even though we live in the same house, hardly talking unless it’s about Billy, never sleeping together anymore?”

He’d take anger over the indifference, offer himself up to the screaming and the fighting if it meant that Arthur would just look at him like he used to, just once. He didn’t even know it was possible to miss someone so much even though they were less than two feet away from you, but he does. Every night, when they’re laying in bed, backs turned towards each other, he misses Arthur with a ferocity that burns in his chest. It’s not even about the sex, though god knows he misses that too.

“When’s the last time we even said I love you? Because it’s been so long that I can’t even remember.”

Arthur looks at him, blinking slowly, and he looks devastated, like everything he thought he knew was just yanked out from underneath him. It makes Vincent hate himself a little bit more, that he’s the reason for it. Just another reason why he’s a horrible person. He takes advantage of the pause in the conversation to pour himself another drink, and to look away, hide the tears that have started gathering.

“I don’t know how I fit in here, in this new life. We talked about it, I know, but I don’t belong here. I’m not built for raising chickens and growing fucking turnips, Arthur, I thought I could do it, but I can’t.”

Arthur moves fast, when he wants to. Between one blink and the next, it seems, he’s out of his own chair and pulling Vincent out of his, wrapping his arms around him like he hasn’t in months, crashing both of them into the table when Arthur kisses him like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do, hard enough to bruise. It’s a little awkward, Vincent’s hands pressed between them, so he can’t do anything to brace himself. It’s a little violent, the force tinging everything with the faint taste of blood, teeth catching on his lower lip. It’s fucking perfect.

“Don’t you ever forget that the place you belong is right here, in my arms. This is where you fit in. I’m so fucking stupid for not telling you every fucking day that I love you, you stupid man.”

“Oh? Why don’t you show me, then?”

Vincent’s practically standing on his toes, lifted up by Arthur’s arms around him, and he’s managed to work a hand free to steady himself by holding onto the edge of the table. It’s an almost visible change, bordering on anger, when he says it. He’s not going to lie, it’s more than a little appealing. It doesn’t escape his notice, the irony of the danger being alluring, not at all.

“Got that big bed upstairs. Suppose there’s a few things we’ve been missing out on.”

Arthur reaches past him, to the table, where Vincent’s discarded tie from earlier in the day is balled up, left next to the bowl of fruit that no one ever touches.

“We’re going to need this.”


	17. secrets

Vincent had learnt, long ago, the importance of keeping secrets, whether they were your own or whispered to you in darkened rooms. Speaking the wrong thing to the wrong person will get you killed. He’s heard a lot of secrets, over the years. Something about him puts people at ease, makes them more likely to confide in him, their sordid little mistakes safe with him. In his line of work, you kept your mouth shut, or you didn’t last very long at all. He’s got more than a few secrets of his own, things he’d take with him to the grave, never to pass his lips, not even to Arthur. Is it self preservation or shame? He doesn’t know, and he supposes it doesn’t really matter. It’s been years, well over a decade, there’s no reason to break open old wounds by dragging the past back up. In the end, he doesn’t have a choice when it all comes screaming back on it’s own.

“What is he doing here?”

In a second, he feels like a boy again, staring across at the man that sits at the table like it’s normal, trying to hide the way his hands have started shaking. There are things he’ll never remember, like the smell of his mother’s perfume, the sound of her voice. Then there are things that he knows, for as long as he lives, that he will never forget. The smug face that looks at him now is one of them. He can hear talking, someone saying something, but he can’t hear past the ringing in his ears, and feels, all of a sudden, like he’s going to be sick. The chair he was sitting in crashes to the floor when he stands up and rushes out of the room, away from the priest that had haunted him for the longest time.

Arthur, predictably, follows, and Vincent wants to scream at him to go away, just leave, but he can’t. It’s hard to do anything, when you’re curled over a sink, emptying your stomach into it. Rough, warm hands rub his back, calming, and after a few minutes he stands back up and wipes his mouth. He knows the conversation that’s coming, and just the thought of it makes him feel like he’s going to be sick again. Not once, in all the time that they’ve been together, has Arthur ever doubted him, treated him like anything less than perfect, but he’s still afraid that this is going to be the thing that breaks them.

“Come on, sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Strong hands lower him down into one of the kitchen chairs, lingering on his shoulders, before Arthur turns to find the kettle. Vincent watches him, and swears he’ll never get tired of it, promises that this is one of the things he’ll remember if everything goes to hell. He never understood the point of it all, until that night at the train station, and then he understood all too clearly. It shouldn’t be possible to love someone so much, that you’d kill yourself just to see them smile, but here he is. After the death of his mother, before the train station, it’d only ever been himself, alone, looking after himself. He can still do that now, he knows that, but it just might kill him this time.

“You never talk about what life was like, when you were alone.”

People forget that Arthur isn’t stupid, looking at him and dismissing him as the same violent, unintelligent brute you can find in any city corner. He knows people, knows Vincent, and the throwing up was a pretty big indicator that something is wrong, and he’s going to fix it. Vincent fucking loves him. He’d thought, by now, he’d be dead, either by his own hand or as a result of a mistake, not sitting here, the best person he’s ever known looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters.

“How old were you?”

He feels ashamed, that it’s so obvious, that it’s affecting him this bad even now. The sick feeling is still in his stomach, getting stronger when the memories play through his mind. He wants to shrink away from Arthur when he wraps his arms around him, holding him close, but he can’t. Sometimes, like now, it’s the only time he feels safe, like everything is going to be alright. This, right here, is the first safe haven that he’s ever known.

“Which time? Eight, when it started.”

The shift in the air is tangible, Arthur’s anger spiking at his words, rolling over him like a wave. He’s never been afraid of Arthur, not even during the bad days, but he is scared of being left behind because this is too big for anyone to handle. He can take anything, fists, bullets, whatever the world wants to throw at him, but he can’t take that. It would break him in ways there’s no coming back from. In the back of his mind, he can hear the voice of the priest, the phantom feeling of hands holding him down, and feels dirty, the kind of dirty that won’t leave no matter how hard he scrubs himself clean. He knows, he’s tried.

“You should-”

Arthur cuts off the words that he knows is coming, tightening his arms so there’s no possibility of Vincent getting away from what he has to say before he’s finished. Vincent is strong, can take a punch better than anyone Arthur knows, never backs down from danger when it’s staring him right in the eyes, but he’s always been bad with hearing that he’s a good person, better than most of the people Arthur’s ever met.

“You’re stronger than whatever that sick fucker did to you, and if you’re going to say that I should leave, don’t even bother.”

Vincent still wears the chain, tags and the ring hanging off the end, and Arthur drags it out from underneath his shirt, holds it up so they’re both looking at it.

“I gave these to you, because I love you more than anything on this shitty fucking planet, and nothing is going to change that, not even this. There is nothing, not one fucking thing, that could ever make me stop loving you.”


	18. down

“This is the best you could find?”

He feels like he should be offended, but the boy that stands across from him isn’t impressive looking either, so he lets it go. When they’d asked him to be a stand in boxing opponent, he’d kind of expected someone, well, bigger, but he’s sure that’s what everyone thought about him when he was younger and in the same position. He knows he’s not everyone’s first thought of what a good fighter looks like, or even the tenth, but it’s been years since he’s been bothered by it. He knows what he can do, and there’s no better way to make someone a believer than show them.

“Trust me, he’ll surprise you.”

It starts off awkward, slow, the two of them circling around each other, and he’s reluctant to actually hit the kid, but he glances at Tommy and the man nods, so he supposes he’s got no choice, really. Still, he doesn’t go full strength, not yet, he knows to wait. Using too much energy to fast is always a bad idea. The shout of “Go, Bonnie!” almost distracts him, and he only just manages to get a hand up to block the punch coming for his stomach. The kid is strong, stronger than Vincent expected. Alright, fine, he’ll play along. Vincent hits him in the ribs, and the impact echoes through the warehouse, leather smacking against skin ringing in his ears. To his credit, Bonnie barely stumbles before he hits back with a punch of his own, hard to the shoulder, hard enough to knock him back a step, and then he stops thinking.

“I see why you chose him now.”

There’s a glimmer of surprise on Bonnie’s face, like not many people last too long against his fists that feel like sledgehammers. They probably don’t, it fucking hurts, but Vincent’s never been one to go down without a fight, and now is no exception, even if Bonnie is just a kid. He does feel a small shiver of guilt, when the crunch of bone breaking snaps through the air, but then he gets a hit to the mouth that he’s pretty sure loosens a few teeth, so he’s not that guilty. In the end, he makes the mistake of stepping forward too soon, getting his arm up at the wrong time, and the concrete fucking hurts when he slams to the ground, dazed.

“Fucking hell.”

Before he can move, a hand is reaching down for him, and he takes it, pulling himself up and grinning up at the kid who looks at him with a frown, confused. Vincent can taste the blood that’s smeared across his teeth, and it makes the smile look demonic, not unlike he’s just been eating something raw and bloody. Tommy looks indifferent, like he always these days, but Arthur and John look amused, passing money like they’ve been making bets, and Vincent rolls his eyes. Bonnie looks at him, a little confused like he’s still not completely sure how someone managed to last that long, let alone give him an actual fight, and hesitantly optimistic when Vincent tells him that he’s never met anyone that could put him down that fast without a weapon.

“So, you’re the best they have?”

“Not anymore.”

Bonnie grins at him, then, bright and wide, and he thinks, yeah, he’s definitely keeping this kid.


	19. noose

Any sane person would call him loyal to a fault, that it’s going to be his downfall one day. It’s not that he doesn’t see the flaws in the people around him, he knows them intimately, it’s just that he doesn’t care because they’re family and that means there’s no line he wouldn’t cross to keep them with him, where they belong. It’s not a blind loyalty, either, like he’s sure some people think, that it’s just because he’s wormed his way into the family and doesn’t want to lose the perks that come with it. He couldn’t possibly care less about the money, or the recognition, neither of those things have been of any interest to him. Every one of them, despite their flaws of which there are many, are someone he’d die to protect. Almost had, in John’s case. It makes him dangerous, in a way that’s different from everyone else, because there’s no self-preservation instinct in him. He’ll take their enemies down even if it means going down with them, but there’s no enemy to take down here, standing in a room flooded with white light with a noose around his neck.

There’s a million things he’s done wrong in his life, he can admit that, but killing the priest hadn’t been one of them. It might have been the death that had meant the most, to more than just him, and he’ll never regret being there, watching Michael pull the trigger. For years, he had felt the grasping hands on his arms, heavy breathing in his ear, and he hadn’t been old enough then to fight back. Somewhere along the way, he’d shoved it to the far recesses of his brain, to be forgotten until seeing him had brought it all screaming back. He regrets that they hadn’t had time to stop the charges from going off and turning the train into a burning wreck, that’s on all their consciences, but the regret stops there. Apart from that, there’s never been someone he hadn’t killed that hadn’t deserved it, hadn’t attacked first and been killed as a result of his retaliation.

“I guess this is it, yeah?”

He can’t quite turn his head, not all the way, the rope restricting too much movement, but he can see enough to get a good idea of the reactions of the other men in the room. Michael is to his left, and when Vincent turns to look at him he looks like he’s staring down the barrel of his worst nightmare. Maybe he is, Vincent isn’t a mind reader. It’s probably appropriate, he supposes, using the time to think about all the things that you wish you had or hadn’t done. Personally, there’s not much he wishes he’d done, he’d never been the sort to deny himself anything just because it wasn’t proper, or the other myriad of reasons people denied themselves their desires. Life was short, he figured, why not do what he wanted when he wanted. Well, he regrets that he’ll never get to know his son, because he’s always wanted a child of his own, and now that he’s finally got one, he’s going to be executed for something that should have happened years ago.

How many children have they saved from the horrors that he and Michael had gone through? He’ll never know, but even if it had only been one, it would have been worth it. God knows he’s killed too many people to count, regardless of gender, and even he knows that there’s things that you just didn’t do. One less monster in the world, preying on children that can’t protect themselves. He’s not afraid to die, so the situation isn’t particularly bothering, except that it’s not just him. The other three men with him don’t deserve to die, but no amount of trying to talk to someone about it had helped anything. If he’s honest, this isn’t far off from how he saw himself dying. It was always going to be violent, rough, but he hadn’t expected it to be like this. Maybe from a knife, or a gun, but never a noose. Not that he has any choice, forced into standing in the middle of the room with his hands tied behind his back. He can’t even reach out and grab Arthur’s hand one last time, and that pisses him off the most. Across the room, he can see the hand around the handle tighten, preparing to open the hatches they stand on, and takes a deep breath.

“I’ll see you all on the other side, then.”


	20. peace

“Take him in the room there, I’ll just be a minute.”

Just one night out where nothing happened, that’s all he asks for. He’s supposed to be at ringside, watching Bonnie win the fight they’d been training together for, not up here, picking his husband up off the floor, blood slicking his hands. He’d known that something was going to go wrong, as soon as Tommy had told him who Bonnie would be fighting, but he’d thought that Alfie would’ve had more sense after the last time Vincent had visited him, knife to his throat, warning him of what would come if he made a move against any of them. The fact that it’s Arthur, well, he’s going to kill everyone involved, and he’ll do it with a smile on his face.

“Alright, love?”

“Hurts.”

He presses a towel against the gouges in Arthur’s neck, and hums, nodding.

“Yeah, I imagine it would. I’ve got some work to do, I’ll see you later.”

“Be careful.”

Vincent grins at him.

“I’ll be fine. It’s them that should be worried.”

The man waiting for him in the next room screams so sweetly when Vincent takes one of his fingers, slowly sawing through the muscle and bone like he’s got all the time in the world. There’s no attempt to get information out of him, that’s not what this is about. This is retribution, of daring to touch Arthur, and he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy it. It still never manages to surprise him, exactly how much blood the human body can handle. The man thrashes and screams, when Vincent starts working on his other hand, the rest of his fingers littering the ground, and he can practically feel Finn and Isiah cringing as he works. By the time he’s done, there’s not much left to the man, just a limp body with pieces missing; his fingers, a few teeth, an eye, his tongue.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

He’s covered in blood, slick red coating his hands and his arms, but he still drags both of them into a hug, ignoring the way they groan at the blood that’s smeared over them now, and tells them that they haven’t seen anything yet. You’ve got the devil inside you, Vincent, his mother whispers into his ear, and he nods to himself. He’s going to burn Luca Changretta’s empire to the ground, and when the time comes, he’s going to make him wish he’d never stepped foot off the boat into London. Finn looks at him, frowning, and for a second he looks like the little boy that Vincent remembers meeting that night he’d finally got back from France.

“I always wondered what you’d do if anything happened to Arthur.”

“I’d do this for any of you, Finn. You’re my family, and the only thing that’s waiting for anyone that hurts my family is what you saw in that room.”

It takes everything in him not to just kill Changretta where he stands, but he holds himself back, stands beside Finn and keeps his mouth shut, acting like he’s just there for a little added protection, like they’ve planned. He’ll get his chance soon enough. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the change in a man’s face after they realise they’ve been beaten, and he watches it happen when Luca realises that the men behind him are never going to help him. In a matter of minutes, with just a few simple sentences, everything collapses around him, and then Tommy nods back at Vincent, and it’s his turn.

He’d thought for a long time, in the days when he’d been hidden away with Arthur, on how he’d kill Changretta when the time came. Something fast, like a bullet to the head, or something slower? In the end, he decides that it’s going to be more satisfying to turn the tables on him. Feeling the taller man struggle against him, trying to pull away the wire that digs into his neck, is a strange sort of exhilaration. It’ll never work, the thin coil is razor sharp and far too strong to be broken, but he appreciates the amusement of watching Changretta try, and hearing the grunts as his struggles gradually get less and less effective. Not that Vincent was planning on letting him go, but it’s fun when he tries to get free.

Arthur touches him on the shoulder, startling him, and he drops the wire from his aching hands. They’ll scar, he realises, when he looks down at them, seeing the thin gouges dug into his palms from how hard he’d been holding it. Just a few more to add to the collection he’s already got.

“It’s done. We’re free, it’s over, you can stop.”

He looks across at the group of people waiting, his family, and nods to himself. All of a sudden, it feels like the fight rushes out of him, and he’s tired, down to his bones. Don’t get him wrong, this sort of thing is all he’s been good at, what keeps him alive in a strange, contradictory way, but he’s ready for some peace and quiet. Arthur checks his hands, fussing over the cuts, and wraps his hands in bandages that he’d apparently brought with him. Smart man, his husband. Vincent doesn’t realise his hands are shaking until Arthur looks at him and grabs both of them, holding them between his.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, hey?”

They go back to the farm, for a few weeks only, Arthur promises. Billy and Rosie charge off happily from the car when they get back, going right to the kennels where the dogs are waiting, laughing as they go. It’s what he always imagined, all those years ago, but it doesn’t feel like restrictive like the last time. They’re going back to Small Heath in two weeks, he recites to himself, when the feeling of boredom gets too strong, and throws himself into looking after the kids, teasing Arthur when he grumbles about his crops not growing like they’re supposed to. It’s the peace that they’ve all needed for years, and there’s no one left for him to fight, no one left to kill to keep his family safe.

Until he catches up to Alfie Solomons, that is.


	21. salt

“Why are you here, Vincent?”

“Watching over you, of course. Someone’s got to do it, and I don’t trust anyone else to do it.” ‘I don’t trust you’, he doesn’t say, but it’s clear enough in the way he looks at Michael, idly rubbing his thumb along the glass of rum in his hand. It’s not that he doesn’t trust him, it’s that he doesn’t trust the woman staring at him with a smirk on her face, unaware of what she’s getting herself into. 

“Doesn’t have to be a problem, just act like I’m not here,” he says, and grins to himself when Michael glares at him. If he’s going for intimidating, he fails by a mile, looking more like a disgruntled little boy than a threat. Gina looks at him in barely concealed disgust when he sits down across from her and throws his feet up on the other chair, looking back at her with a blank face. 

“If you don’t mind, of course, Mrs. Gray.”

It’s mocking, clearly a taunt, and he sees the way she has to take a deep breath to stop herself from snapping back. Smart woman. Camille has told him everything, all about the snake’s little manipulations, working her way into Michael’s weak heart to take everything over. He’d be impressed, if it wasn’t everything they’d all built she’s trying to steal out from underneath them. It’s not the money, he could care less about that, it’s the principle of the thing. No one gets away with trying to hurt any of them, even Michael, as annoying as Vincent finds him. 

“Of course not. We’re not doing anything wrong, we have nothing to hide?”

“Don’t you? See, I have this friend, she used to work for you, and the stories she’s told me? Oh, they’d ruin a person if they got out. Wouldn’t they, Gina?”

“What is he talking about?”

It probably shouldn’t be this much fun, breaking down her aloof, unaffected facade, but he can’t deny that it is. The flare of panic in her eyes and the undercurrent of anger in her voice is too amusing for him not to grin. 

“She didn’t tell you about her family?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why don’t you tell him, hm? All about your big brother, Oswald, and how you’re here on his orders to take everything down from the inside out? I might come from nothing, but I have my ways of finding things out. It wasn’t even all that hard, you two should work on finding employees that know how to keep their mouths shut.”

In all honesty, he’d fought as much as he could when they’d asked him to be on babysitting duty. He’d rather be anywhere than here, actually doing something, but he can’t deny that the shattered look on her face when Michael turns on her with a betrayed look on his face isn’t a sight to see. 

“Is he telling the truth?”

“‘Course I am, cousin, would I lie to you?”

He can feel the denial that Michael wants to spit at him, but he’s got him there, Vincent might be many things but he’s not a liar, not to family, and Michael is still one of them regardless of the mistakes he’s been making. “What reason do I have to lie? It’s not like either of you were going to get away with your limbs still intact, let alone your lives.”

Gina must not have a good sense of self preservation, or maybe she’s just too proud to admit that anyone else other than her is a threat, because her composure lasts fairly well until that last part. Her eyes dart to the scars on his chest, the knife in his belt, and goes even paler, somehow. 

“Don’t worry about it, we all have our moments of weakness when it comes to a pretty face. I’ve heard that the restaurant downstairs has a good bar. You should go check it out, I’ll deal with the situation here.”

Gina protests, as they always do, and runs for the bedroom when Michael nods and puts his coat back on, like the door will do anything to stop what’s coming for her. “Just- Don’t make it hurt too much.” He disappears without another word, the door shutting softly behind him. 

“You know, I thought for a long time about what I was going to do, when this moment finally came,” Vincent says, louder than her normally would so she can hear him through the walls. He doesn’t have to worry about her calling for help, he’d already cut the line when he’d gone to use the bathroom. Judging by the sound of her curses, she’s just discovered them. “I’m going to kill you, of course, but how to do it? That was the question.”

“Stay away from me.”

“Can’t do that, sorry love.” The door is an annoying barrier, but the lock is old and worn, and gives with two well placed kicks. “You see, I’m very protective of my friends and family. I’d do anything for them, really, and well, if one of them gets killed I have to hit back. An eye for an eye. You probably don’t even know, but a good man died that night. His name was Barney, and he was shot in the back of the head.”

He’s not a complete monster, he’s not going to kill her, but it’s fun to see the reaction he gets when he says he will. No, the retribution is for Oswald, this is just a little message, and a warning. 

“Hold still, it won’t hurt too much.”

She struggles, because of course she does, and she might be slightly taller than him but she’s nowhere near stronger, and the hand he wraps around her jaw is enough to keep her in place, even as she kicks out at him. “Look at that pretty face. Must be the way you lure them all in, with eyes like that.” He feels no remorse for the scream she lets out when he drags the knife down her face, cutting through skin and muscle like butter, spilling blood over his fingers. Carefully, he avoids any of the fatal areas, this isn’t about killing her, this is about taking away everything she is. 

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, don’t cry. The salt will just sting.”


	22. trouble

The drive back to the farm is a quiet one. Michael sits in the passenger seat, looking out the window, and Vincent pretends he can’t see the tears in his eyes. It’s only natural, he assumes, it’s not the kid’s fault that he got taken in so fully by manipulations. He’d been young once too, he remembers how easy it was to get under his skin. Michael’s bags are in the back. Vincent had brought them down himself, saving Michael a trip back up to the room to see the scene he’d left behind. He’s not a monster, he’d left bandages and painkillers for her, but that was the extent of his help. She’d brought this on herself, trying to worm her way into his family where she didn’t belong. 

“Dad!” Before he’s even out of the car, the kids are already there, grabbing onto his legs and almost knocking him over. Teddy hangs back, like he usually does, but the open arms waiting for him are too good to pass up and he runs into Vincent’s hug, letting himself be picked up and swung over his father’s shoulder. “No, no, put me down!” 

“Huh? Sorry, what was that? Poke you here? Well alright.” He digs his fingers into the part of Teddy’s ribs that he knows is ticklish and listens to his youngest giggle wildly, trying to squirm away from his hold but failing. Michael doesn’t say anything, but he smiles watching Vincent playing with the kids, chasing Rosie and Billy back inside with Teddy laughing into the broad expanse of his back, trying to breath through his giggles. It’s a strange thing, to watch a man that could kill a man without batting an eye being so affectionate. Vincent gestures for Michael to follow him into the house, and leads him into the sitting room where Arthur is sitting, pretending to read the paper. 

“I found this outside, I think it belongs to you,” Vincent says before he drops Teddy into Arthur’s lap, squashing the newspaper under the three year old’s weight. “I have no idea where it came from, but it makes a strange noise when you poke it just there.” 

“You’re in a good mood.”

“It’s been a productive day, love. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

Arthur kisses him quickly before he steps away and then looks over his shoulder and frowns when he sees Michael standing in the hall with his bags, looking awkward at seeing them being so domestic. “What are you doing, Vin?

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it under control. Trust me?”

“Always.”

“Good. Come on, Michael, you look like you could use a drink.”

They don’t keep much alcohol in the house anymore, too many kids running around, but there’s half a bottle of rum hidden in the back of the pantry and he pours a generous amount into two glasses before he slides one of them across the table to his cousin. 

“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He knows it is, Michael’s been looking at him and the dried blood under his fingernails since he sat down at the bar next to him. A part of him feels bad, when he sees the red around Michael’s eyes, like he’s been crying. “She’s still alive, just a bit out of commission at the moment. She’ll be fine, eventually.” 

“You could have kept what you knew to yourself, and I wouldn’t have been a problem for you anymore.”

“A problem?” Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Michael is still young, that he actually had a good childhood unlike the rest of them. “Listen.” He stops to light his cigarette, not looking up, “You’ve been a pain in the ass, but you’ve never been a problem for me.”

Michael looks at him like he doesn’t believe him, and it’s such a Polly expression that he has to work to stop the laugh from getting out. 

“You can’t tell me that everything wouldn’t be easier if I had just stayed in the village.”

“Easier? Maybe, but it’d also be a hell of a lot less interesting.”

Vincent can’t exactly blame him, in all of this. Not all manipulations were obvious, some of them were so subtle even the best of them wouldn’t have noticed, and well, he can’t fault Michael for attaching himself to the first person that had shown him the attention. He’d done it himself, years ago, when he’d met Arthur, and hadn’t looked back since. Doing what he did to Gina didn’t bother him, not one bit, but the effect if had on Michael did. They’ve never gotten along, too different for that, but he still cares for the insufferable kid all the same.

“Listen, you’re family, alright? You’re always going to be family, doesn’t matter what you do, and I look after my own. I’d do the same thing for any of them. Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean I wouldn’t do anything to keep you out of trouble.”

“Why?”

“I never had a family, growing up. It was just me, for the longest time, until I found Arthur and had my own family. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me, not even pretty American girls.”

The creak by the closed door gives Arthur away, listening in to what Vincent is saying, and he knows that they’re going to have a long talk about his self-sacrificing ways later, but first, he’s got to get the idea through Michael’s head. It’s not unlike talking to one of the kids, he notices, like last week when they’d had to explain that being adopted didn’t mean they loved Billy any less.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Cook dinner, I suppose. Word of advice, never let Arthur anywhere near a stove, the house would end up burnt down to ashes.”

Michael gives him a smile, a tiny one, barely there but good enough. 

“Don’t worry about what happens next. We can handle that, you worry about how much you’re going to have to apologise to Tommy and your mum.”

Yeah, just like one of the kids, he thinks, when Michael groans and drops his head to the table with a thunk. Always so dramatic.


	23. christmas

“You know they’ll be bursting in here at any moment,” Vincent says, still half asleep. It’s hard to not be woken up when someone drags you back into them, he thinks, but doesn’t protest. If the being dragged didn’t wake him, the wandering hand sneaking up under his shirt would have. “Do you really want to risk it?” He doesn’t shiver when Arthur kisses the back of his neck, but it’s a near thing. “It’s Christmas, Vin, stop worrying so much. This agrees with me.” It won’t work, he knows that, but all thoughts rush out of his mind when Arthur slips his hand under the waistband of the pajama pants Ada had bought him years ago and wraps his fingers around him.

Three things happen in fairly rapid succession: he gasps into the pillow and reaches down to wrap his own fingers around Arthur’s, taking over the pace. It’s been a while since they had the time for anything, these days.

The door crashes open, flinging into the wall with a bang, and three excited children land on the end of the bed, yelling that they need to get out of bed, it’s Christmas. Billy lands on Vincent’s foot, pinning it awkwardly to the bed and he winces.

Michael looks at the way they’re laying, one arm each underneath the blankets, and smirks at them knowingly before he herds the children out and down into the kitchen for breakfast.

“I told you.”

“Well, they’re busy now, aren’t they? Michael’s got them, they’ll be fine without us for a while.”

**

When they finally make it downstairs, John and Esme have already arrived with all the kids, and the kitchen sounds like a war zone. John looks up at them when they walk in and starts laughing. “Michael told us you were a bit busy up there.” Arthur goes a bit red and adjusts his collar, fidgeting awkwardly, and Vincent rolls his eyes. “Like we all haven’t seen worse from you two. My eyes are still offended.” He takes John’s cup of tea and ignores the betrayed look on his face, smiles at Esme and asks how she’s been. It takes less than two minutes before Rosie remembers what today is, and asks what time they’re going to her uncle’s house. “Well, we can’t go if you three aren’t dressed, can we?”

The rest of the morning, sitting with John and Esme at the kitchen table, goes like this:

“Vin, have you seen my blue socks?”

“They’re in the bathroom!”

“Dad, Billy pulled my hair!”

“Did not!”

“Did too, Teddy saw it!”

“Billy, leave your sister alone, will you? Rosie, don’t think I can’t see you feeding cookies to the dog, do you want me to come out there?”

“Sorry, dad!” 

“They’re not in the bathroom!”

“Then check the closet!”

“Sounds familiar,” Esme says, looking amused. “Just wait until you get a few more.”

“I don’t know how you do it, honestly. I’m barely managing to control three of them, and Arthur.”

Eventually, after approximately an hour and several cups of tea, Vincent manages to get everyone out of the house and into the cars, counting to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anyone before he locks the door. Why did he agree to this, again? Right, because his husband is unfairly persuasive, and he can never say no to his kids for anything. The Christmas presents are already in the car, waiting, so he’s pretty sure that he’s got everything under control, for now, at least. 

“Everybody ready?”

“Got it, love. Come on, Tommy’s probably wondering if the kids have finally ran us into the ground.”

Arthur drives, so Vincent can sit in the passenger seat and keep an eye on the kids in the back, to make sure they keep their hands off the presents sitting behind them. No one needs a repeat of last year. 

“Alright, we’re going to behave today, or no one gets to stay up later tonight, understand?” Three voices shout yes at him, and he nods. “Good. I’ll be watching, so don’t do anything too stupid.” Arthur reaches for his hand when he turns back around, taking it off the wheel to reach for him, and he sighs to himself and takes it. It’s been an exhausting morning and they haven’t even gotten through the rest of the day yet. They won’t be staying up late, he knows they’ll all be too tired by the time they get back home again, but bribery works to get them to behave and he’s not above underhanded tactics. 

“I was beginning to think you all changed your minds,” Lizzie says when they all pile out of the cars, and Vincent grins at her before he kisses her cheek, gesturing at his husband and kids fussing around with the wrapped packages from the car. “Had to deal with my four children first.”

“Hey, I heard that!”

“You were supposed to, Arthur.” Lizzie winks at him and lets them all inside, leading to them into the room where everyone else is already waiting like a long, slightly awkward parade of children carrying boxes and bags. “Look who I found outside, I think I know them from somewhere.” 

“And I think I need a drink.” 

“Already got one waiting for you, I thought you might be needing it.” Tommy hands him a glass of whiskey, looking at him in amusement. 

“Got anything for Michael, because he might need to erase this morning from his mind.” John laughs, and then yelps when Esme smacks him on the back of the head, telling him to behave. Finn laughs at him, but slaps a hand over his mouth when Polly gives him a look, trying to muffle his sounds. Ada rolls her eyes at all of them, but he sees the small smile on her face. 

“Alright, enough of that, we’ve all seen more of you than we ever wanted to, John, you can’t judge.”

“It’s not my fault that none of you know how to knock!”

“Why would I need to knock on the kitchen door in my own house?!”

**

After the kids have opened their presents, they’re all sent upstairs to the playroom, and after they leave it gets considerably less noisy in the dining room. Not entirely silent, because Arthur, John and Finn have talked Johnny into a game of cards that seems to have rules that change with each hand, but quiet enough. “Thank god this only happens once a year. I think it’d kill me, otherwise.” 

“Just wait until the sugar high hits.”

“Lizzie! I thought you were my friend.” He holds his hand to his chest in mock hurt, grinning at her. Arthur snorts beside him, not looking up from his cards. “I’m not worried, that’s Arthur’s turn to deal with them all.” 

“Dad, come and play with us!” 

“I’ll be up in a minute!” Rosie nods at him and runs back to the other kids, feet pounding on the stairs. He loves her, loves all of them, but god they’re so energetic and he’s getting too old for that. “Come on, you lot, if I’ve got to do it, so do you.”

That’s how they end up outside, the women sitting in garden chairs and laughing to each other watching their husbands and brothers chase children around the gardens. No one is surprised when Arthur goes down first, slipping over in the mud, and he looks at Vincent with a look of feigned betrayal when he laughs and gives away his hiding spot. “Don’t you dare.”

“What, you don’t want a hug?” Arthur walks towards him, hands and arms covered in mud, grinning. “Come on, just one.” He can’t get away without giving away his hiding spot, though he tries to shift further back behind the hedge. It doesn’t work, and Arthur grabs him around the middle, dragging him out from behind the green bush and rubbing muddy hands all over his face. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, love.” 

“I will kill you.”

“Nah. You love me too much.” 

The way Vincent grins at him is enough to make him a little nervous, and he tries to back away but the grip Vincent has on his wrists is hard to break when his hands are slippery with mud. “Sorry, love, but you brought this on yourself.”

“Brought what?”

He pushes Arthur backwards, into the puddle behind him, and catches the faintest glimpse of his shocked face before he slams into the wet grass. “Even though you’re angry, just remember how much I love you!” He runs, while Arthur is distracted, and scrambles behind Lizzie’s chair, using her as a human shield. “Save me, Liz.”

“Arthur, he’s over here!”

“Hey! This is betrayal of the worst kind!” 

Tommy and Finn laugh when a ball of mud hits him in the side of the head as he tries to run, exploding through his hair, and John cheers Arthur on with a grin. 

“Alright, this means war. Johnny, you’re on my side.”

The other man nods at him, the serious look on his face being ruined by the laughter in his eyes, and they take half of the kids with them to what they claim as their fort, behind the cars. What starts off as a structured game quickly devolves into everyone trying to hit as many people with mud as they can, teams turning on each other. Somehow, Tommy has managed to keep even a speck of dirt off him. Vincent can’t let that go on.

“Vincent, don’t you dare.”

“Sorry, Tommy, but it has to be done. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

The mud in his hands is in as close to a ball shape as he can get it, and he advances on his brother-in-law slowly, drawing the chase out. 

“This is a new suit, if you ruin it-”

“Now!”

From every angle, mud flies through the air and hits Tommy square, covering him almost completely. All the kids cheer at their aim, laughing at the shocked look on their uncle’s face and the fact that he looks like he crawled out of the river. 

“Did we win?”

Before Charlie can run, Tommy grabs him and hugs him to his chest, covering his son in mud and leaves while he giggles, trying to squirm away but unable to break the hold Tommy has on his waist. “Dad, no!”

“Alright, come on, mud monsters, time to go clean up for dinner, hey?”

Everyone trudges towards the house, breathless from all the running and laughter, and strips off under Lizzie and Polly’s watchful eyes, warning them from tracking mud and twigs through the house. 

“Good thing all of us already have clothes here.”

Arthur wraps his arms around Vincent’s waist and hooks his chin over his shoulder, watching Billy and Teddy helping Rosie take her hair out of the braid Esme had put it up in this morning. 

“I don’t know, I prefer like you in nothing, but I don’t think everyone else would enjoy it.”

“Later,” Vincent says, and kisses him, slow and easy. At least until John throws a shoe at them, telling them that there’s kids around. Everyone only snickers at him when Arthur and Vincent flip him off in synchronised motion.


	24. wings

It takes all his considerable control not to react when Mosley sits across the table from him. At least he hadn’t had McCavern with him, Vincent isn’t sure he could face that man without cutting his throat so deep it severed his spinal cord for what he did to Bonnie and Aberama, not to mention Barney. He wouldn’t do something so banal to Mosley, no, Vincent has his own plans for him, and it’s not going to be so quick or clean. He’d pretty much sealed his fate with what Lizzie had told him Mosley had done.

“I wasn’t aware that we had anything planned for tonight, gentlemen.” He eyes the knife that Vincent has in his belt, the same place it’s been since Arthur brought it for him. “What’s going on here? That’s not for me, is it?”

“Oh, this?” Vincent stabs the knife into the table, leaving it quivering next to his cup of tea, “No, that’s not for you. That’s just for anyone that’s stupid enough to try anything. I’m only the bodyguard tonight.”

For now, anyway. Oswald relaxes after that, but keeps sending him side-eye glances over the cup of tea he’s holding, and Vincent just smiles back at him while he talks business with Tommy, Vincent tuning it out like he’s been doing for years. It makes Mosley suspicious, but it won’t matter by the time the sun rises in a few hours. He’d specifically chosen his own men tonight, keeping everyone else away to keep them from seeing what he’s about to do. There’s no chance that they’ll abandon him if they know what he’s got planned, but it’s not going to be pretty or sane, and he’d rather keep his work as far away from them as possible.

“How is the tea, Mr Mosley? I hope it’s not too bitter, it took me a while to figure out how much to use. It takes about fifteen minutes to kick in, so you should have about two minutes left.”

Spitting the tea out won’t do anything, but he’ll give him points for trying. Neither will calling for his guards, Vincent’s boys will have already taken them out. He’d been planning this for the last week, and he made sure he accounted for every detail. He stands up and pulls the needle and thread out of his pocket, distantly aware that Tommy leaves while Vincent calls one of the boys over and takes the small can out of his hand.

“I have to do this first, so just give me a minute, then we’ll get to all the fun.” He drops most of the rough twine into the can, leaving a few inches hanging over the side, and leaves it on the table to soak for a while, to let the string soak up as much of the liquid as possible. “No hard feelings about what happens next, but, well, I could do much worse.” There are very few things that would be worse, but it’s the thought that counts, right? “Looks like that hemlock is kicking in,” He says, as Mosley tries to back away and trips over his own feet. “That’ll be the dizziness. Don’t worry, I measured the dose very careful. It won’t kill you, just take you out of commission for a little while.”

Dragging a chair across the room, over to where two of his men are tying Mosley to another chair, he sits down directly in front of him and looks at him for a few minutes, watching the despicable man begin to sweat as the tremors and the nausea hit him. “I heard your little speech last week. Very impressive, but a little foolish on your part. A friend of mine wasn’t very impressed, even offered me these men to help me for what I’m going to do to you tonight. Well, he betrayed my family a few times first, but I think we’ve moved past that now. He’s Jewish, so he was pretty supportive, considering.”

“You’re a savage.”

Vincent grins at him, and there’s nothing nice or happy about it, more a baring of his teeth than anything. “Correct! You’re about to find out exactly how much. Hold him still, will you?”

He stands up and walks across to the table, grabbing a box out from underneath it that Mosley hadn’t noticed when he arrived, and puts it on the chair before he opens it. The angle is too low and the lighting is too dim for Mosley to get a good look at what’s inside, but considering that he immediately starts struggling against the tight knots of rope keeping him in place, he knows it’s nothing good. “Shh, there’s no need to make a scene. You’re not getting out of here alive, so what’s the point?”

Normally, he’d be more gentle, but then he thinks of seeing Bonnie’s body on the cross, finding Aberama and Barney’s bodies, and jams the metal past Mosley’s teeth roughly, not caring about the way the man chokes on the funnel. He’d chosen this one for a reason; it holds his mouth open, no chance of getting away from it, and gestures for one of the other men to give him the hose. He’s not a monster, so he starts it off as just a trickle at first, then turns the tap as far as it will go, and steps back to watch Mosley forced to drink it or drown. He leaves it for a minute, maybe a little longer because it really is satisfying, watching the man try and get away, but he turns the water off eventually and removes the funnel. It wouldn’t do, to have him passing out or dying so soon.

“So, I’ve got a whole night’s festivities planned for us, love. Don’t worry, you won’t die, yet. I’m going to make it as painful as possible, first.”

It only takes a few hits before the man is vomiting the water back up, all down his front and over his own shoes.

“I learnt about this one during the war. Genius, isn’t it? Not enough to kill you, but painful enough to hurt like hell.” When Mosley doesn’t speak, Vincent sighs and puts the funnel back in, and repeating the process again. And again. And again.

“Have you had enough?”

“Please. Let me go?”

“Let you go? Why would I do that? Ishmael, should we let him go?”

Alfie’s men are soft, he thinks, when he looks up and notices that they’re looking at him uneasily, especially when he remembers the twine resting in the can on the table. “Oh nevermind, let’s just keep going, shall we?”

Only years of experience with fixing Arthur’s and his own clothes makes it easy to thread the sodden twine through the large needle. It takes a few minutes, and a few slips because of the liquid that soaks his fingers, but he gets it eventually. It had been Teddy’s idea, when the boy had heard him talking to Arthur about what he planned to do, and not a bad one either. Kerosene soaked twine, now that’s bound to hurt. Mosley takes it admirably for the first two passes through his lips, only hissing through his teeth, but he breaks around the fifth or sixth and groans.

“Stop moving, you’ll only pull on the string and hurt yourself more.”

Vincent takes his time, dragging it out as slowly as he can, pulling the twine through the holes he makes in Oswald’s lips as painfully as possible, and the sounds of pain are music to his ears. “Don’t you look pretty? Just like your sister, now she was a pretty woman. Well, she was until I took that away from her. You should have heard the way she screamed.”

For the last week, he’s had the idea of how to finally kill him, but knows that if he does it with an audience, he’s just going to have more to clean up. Weak stomachs, most people these days, he thinks, and sends everyone out of the room. “What’s he going to do, he can’t even stand,” he says, when they seem reluctant to leave him alone, and rolls his eyes when they finally step out and close the door behind them. “It’s just you and me, then, but don’t worry. It’ll be over soon.”

Whatever Mosley tries to say is muffled by the thick twine holding his lips closed, not that Vincent would’ve listened to him anyway. He so rarely gets to do what he’s good at, anymore, what with the kids and all. He’s not going to pass up this opportunity.

“So, when I was younger, I used to read a lot. I don’t do that a lot anymore, too many things to do around the house, but there was a few poems that I was fond of. My mother used to read them to me, as gruesome as they were, because they were passed down to her from her mother, who got them from her mother, and so on. A family tradition, you understand.” He cuts through the ropes holding Mosley to the chair while he talks, utterly unbothered by the loud, angry mumbles the other man lets out when he tips him onto the floor.

“I’ve always wanted to try out a few things from those poems, but never really had the chance. You’re here, though, so I thought that I’d give them a go. Either way, you’re going to die, so even if I fuck it up, it won’t matter that much, will it?”

It’s sort of amazing, the amount of blood the human body can hold, he thinks, while he’s straddling Mosley’s hips and pinning him face down to the floor. He debates drawing it out, but it’s getting late and he’d promised the kids that he’d be home to make them breakfast, so he gets to work and slices down the middle of the man’s back, from the base of his neck to just above his hips, cutting through fat and muscle to expose the bones and organs below.

“Be right back, don’t go anywhere, sweetie.” He slaps Oswald on the face with one bloody hand and laughs to himself at the flinch he gets from the barely conscious man. The cutters are in the toolbox, and they feel heavy in his hands when he drags them out, cold compared to the heat of the blood. “Almost done, promise,” he says, but Mosley’s passed out and he’s pretty sure the man won’t be waking up again. The bones of his ribs succumb to the pressure of the cutters with a wet crunch, as Vincent works through them from the bottom rib to the top, separating them from the spinal cord methodically. Once he’s got them all done, spread out from the gaping wound in Oswald’s back like wings, kind of beautiful in a morbid, horrible death kind of way, he drops the cutters and picks his knife back up.

“You’d think hearts would be heavier,” he says, like Mosley is able to hear him, cutting through the muscle again and lifting the man’s heart from the cavity he’d made. Blood spills down his arms, pouring from the heart he holds, literally, in his hands, and he looks at it curiously for a minute before he puts it down on the floor, just out of reach of Mosley’s hands. Not that they could reach for anything anymore, of course.

“Is everything alright?”

He looks up at the man that pokes his head through the door, keeping his eyes carefully away from the body laying on the floor in the middle of the room, and Vincent beams at him. He knows he looks horrific, covered in blood and various bits of flesh and bone, but he can’t help himself when it comes to scaring the men Alfie had been so generous to lend him for the night. They’re just so jumpy.

“I’m all done in here. Everyone ready to go? I’ve got to get home, I promised the kids I’d make pancakes.”

He uses the leftover water to clean himself off, as well as he can anyway, and figures he’ll just throw his clothes out when he gets home. When he does walk through the door, Teddy is already on the stairs, and his son looks at him with a knowing look.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares again?”

Teddy doesn’t say anything, but the way he shrinks down into himself is answer enough, and Vincent picks him up and carries him towards the kitchen, easily moving through the steps of making tea and a hot chocolate with a child on his hip. “Don’t worry, a cup of hot chocolate fixes everything. Don’t tell your father, though, I’m not supposed to give you sugar. But we can keep this a secret, can’t we?” Teddy nods vigorously, promising that he won’t say a thing. “That’s my boy. Alright then, up to bed, I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Ted?”

“Why do you hurt people?”

Vincent looks down at his son, huddled under his blankets.

“Who said I hurt people?”

“Some kids at school. They were saying that you do bad things to people.”

He’d expected this sooner or later, because people never could keep their mouth shut, but he’s tired and wants to crawl into bed and sleep.

“I do bad things to bad people. They hurt people, and I hurt them.”

“Like a monster hunter?

“Yeah, just like a monster hunter. You think you can sleep now?” Teddy nods, so Vincent turns out his light and kisses him on the head before he turns to leave the room.

“Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?”

“There are no monsters here, is there?”

Teddy looks frightened, for a second, and his eyes dark to the dark closet in his room.

“No, there’s no monsters. I’m a monster hunter, remember? There’s no monster in the world that I’d ever let get close enough to hurt any of you. Okay?”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.” 

Arthur is still awake when he finally gets into their bedroom and closes the door softly behind him, which isn’t surprising. He’s always been a worrier, never able to sleep properly when there’s a chance that Vincent could be in danger, even though he’s told Arthur multiple times that he can look after himself. One of his sweaters and a pair of pajama pants are waiting for him on the dresser, and he takes off the bloody clothes and drops them on the floor, leaving them there to deal with later. The sweater is warm, too big for him, obviously one of Arthur’s. 

“How did it go?”

“Everything’s dealt with. How were the kids? You didn’t try to cook anything, did you?” He laughs when Arthur hits him in the face with a pillow, and retaliates by biting him on the arm when he flops backwards onto the bed, wiggling his way across the sheets until he’s curled up at his husband’s back. 

“They were fine. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“You know me, I’m invincible.”

Arthur snorts and drags Vincent’s arm over his waist, his way of demanding that Vincent move closer and cuddle him, esentially. He never outright asks, but after this many years, Vincent can read him like a book. “You’re not invincible, you’re just fearless.”

“Not true. I was plenty scared the first time I realised I loved you.”


	25. tease

“I can feel you staring at me.” It’s a slow day, for them at least, and he’d been trying to get some work done but he’s having trouble focusing on the words on the page when he can see Arthur staring at him from his desk across the room. “Don’t you have some work you should be doing?” The cup of tea has gone cold while he’s been focused on the paperwork, so he tips it down the sink and goes to the kettle in the corner of the room to get himself another. He’s not surprised to see Arthur still looking at him when he turns back around. 

“How can I get any work done when you look like that? Should be illegal.”

It’s never been a secret that Arthur’s got a fixation on Vincent’s glasses, not with how much he stares when Vincent’s got them on. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t wear them intentionally sometimes, but no one else has to know. It’s still good to know that he has such an effect, even after all the years they’ve been together. He has to hide his smirk when he tilts his head slowly and looks Arthur up and down, watching the way it makes Arthur fidget in his chair. 

“Then I guess you better get done quick so you can do something about it.”

“Or, just an idea, you could come over here.”

Vincent has never been above being an evil person, so he does, leaving the cup of tea behind on the sink and rounding Arthur’s desk, swinging his legs over and sitting down so his knees are on either side of his husband’s hips. He doesn’t smirk when Arthur looks at him in shock, not expecting him to actually listen, but it’s hard to not laugh at the look on his face. Especially when he leans in and Arthur’s eyes flick down to his lips and back up. 

“Better?” Vincent doesn’t kiss him, but it’s close, and Arthur groans when he shifts forward a little, getting comfortable. “Looks better up close, doesn’t it?” Just like he knew Arthur would, he whispers “Yes” and leans in, and that’s when Vincent stands up and steps back, fixing his shirt where it had ridden up from Arthur’s wandering hands. “Then you should get that work done so we can go home.” He grins as he walks back to his own desk, and he’s pretty sure that the workers on the lower floor hears Arthur drop his head to his desk and yell. 

Through the glass windows, Vincent sees John stand up to see what’s going on, and laughs when John gives him a thumbs up and a smirk before he sits back down. He’s probably going to pay for that later. 

The rest of the day passes slowly, both because the paperwork is insanely boring, and because he know that Arthur keeps glaring at him every few minutes while he resentfully does his own work, looking betrayed. It’s almost too easy to get him worked up again, holding the pencil between his lips while he flips through the papers on his desk, acting like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. He’s impressed when Arthur manages to last three hours before he breaks and slams the folder down on his desk, announcing that they’re going home now, and drags Vincent up and out of the office. John is watching them again, and laughs when Arthur sends him a glare. Vincent just smirks at him and salutes, following along when Arthur leads him out to the car with a hand around his wrist even though they both know he could get out of it if he really wanted to.

“What’s the matter?”

“You know exactly what the matter is.” Arthur glares at him when he starts the car, turning the key so vigorously that he almost stalls the car. 

“The kids will be home in an hour.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

The drive back to the farm takes half the time it usually would, thanks to Arthur speeding, and he slams the door when he gets out of the car, ordering Vincent out and up the stairs. He plays along, well aware that there’s nothing anyone could do to make him do something he didn’t want to do, and isn’t surprised when Arthur slams him into the wall once they’re inside the bedroom, pinning him to the wall with his hands above his head. 

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?”

“Who, me?” 

He can’t not laugh when Arthur spins him around and pretty much throws him onto the bed, following him down and wrapping Vincent’s legs around his hips. He’s not going to lie, getting Arthur angry is half of the appeal. The rest is in the look he gets when Arthur rips the tie off him and ties his hands together with it, anchoring them to the metalwork of the bedposts and growling at him not to move. It’s easy enough, to curl his fingers into the fancy silk and keep his arms in place, lifting his hips to help with the removal of his clothes as well as he can, and then his head is tipping back with a groan as Arthur dips down and swallows him whole. 

“Jesus, if this is what it gets me, I’ll do it more often.”

He’ll deny it to his dying day that he makes the embarrassingly high-pitched noise when he feels the vibrations of the growl around him, or the whimper when Arthur’s fingernails dig deep into the skin of his thighs. 

“Arthur, Vincent, you home?”

The sound of Johnny’s voice echoing up the stairs makes him groan, but for an entirely different reason, and he sighs in disappointment when Arthur pulls off him and moves off the bed, pulling his shirt back on. 

“I’ll be back soon.”

“You are not leaving me here.”

Arthur just grins at him, pulling his sweater back on, the one Vincent had knitted for him years ago, and pats him on the chest twice before he steps away.

“Consider it payback for what you did in the office.”

“Don’t you dare.” Arthur just laughs at he walks out of the bedroom and shuts the door behind him, winking once at him before he disappears. He pulls on the tie, but it’s not a cheap thing and holds when he tries to slip his hands free.

“Arthur, if you leave me here, I’m going to kill you.”

There’s a pause outside the door, then footsteps leading away and down the stairs, deliberately loud so Vincent knows he’s leaving.

“Arthur!”


	26. fingernails

Vincent has always been seen as a strange person, he knows that. He’s got hobbies that don’t match with how men are supposed to be, which he’s never really understood. The fact that he enjoys knitting and baking has nothing to do with how much of a man he is. It’s soothing, in a methodical, focused way, and helps him calm down when he’s had a bad day, so what’s wrong with that? Nothing, in his opinion, but there will always be people that have a problem with it. He’s never been ashamed of the things he likes, not since he was old enough to fight back against the people that attempted to ridicule him for it, so when Esme and John walk in on him and the Katie doing makeup and braids on each other, he just stares back at them, completely unconcerned. 

“What the hell did we just walk in on?”

“Relaxation, obviously. You should try it some time, might calm you down a bit.”

“If people could see you now, Vin. The most dangerous man in London, getting his fingernails painted.”

He looks down at his hands, watching Katie carefully paint the green onto his fingernails, and grins. “Looks great, doesn’t it? I like the colour, think it matches my eyes.” Katie grins up at him, delighted that she’s finally got someone she can practice her makeup skills on, and he smiles back. It probably looks hilarious, with the coloured powders and lipstick on his face and his hair in braids sticking up in every direction, but he’s not bothered. There’s a reason why everyone always wants him to babysit their kids. 

“Done! Do you like them?” 

Vincent ignores John giggling at him from the kitchen door and hums, bringing his hands up to his face so he can inspect each fingernail with exaggerated carefulness, and then nods at Katie seriously. “You’ll be a famous beautician in no time, Kat. Everyone will be fighting each other for the privilege of being one of your customers.” Katie beams at him, pleased, and he ruffles her hair, careful to keep the still drying polish away so it doesn’t get caught in her hair. “Alright, I think it’s time you got to bed, I’ll clean up out here.” 

He picks up all the compacts and bottles and puts them all carefully into the small, clear zippered bag resting on the carpet by his feet. 

“Where’d she even get the makeup?”

“I bought it for her, of course. She asked, and I couldn’t say no. Kids need to have a hobby, and it’s not like I can’t afford it.” John shakes his head at him, amused at the fact that he’s never been good at saying no to any of the kids when they look up at him with their big sad eyes. “Besides, it kept her occupied.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What, letting your daughter put makeup on me? Why would it? It’s just some harmless fun, why not let her enjoy herself for a few hours.” He follows John into the kitchen and sits at the table, taking the cup of tea that Esme hand him with a grateful smile, and admires the green of his fingernails against the white china. “Just because my hands are pretty now doesn’t mean they can’t choke the life out of someone just as easily as always. Sorry, Esme.” He knows that she doesn’t like him discussing his work inside the house, where the kids could hear. 

“Well, yeah, but don’t you worry about what people would think if they saw it?”

“No.”

“Come on, Vin, you look like you’ve been attacked by a horde of women with makeup brushes.” 

“Hey, don’t be mean, she’ll get better at it. I think she did a good job for her first try.” Esme gives him a small smile, aware of what he’s doing, and he winks back over the cup he holds in both his hands for the warmth. “No, John, I’m not worried about what people would think if they saw me like this. I was making a little girl happy, and if all that takes is sitting still and letting her make my face colourful and make my hair pretty, it’s not a hardship.” 

He’s secure in himself enough to know that anything he wears or lets Katie put on his face doesn’t detract from his worth in any way. He could kill a person just as well with green nails and his hair in braids as he could when he looks like he does every other day. 

“It’s also not like I haven’t done it before, what do you think me, Esme and the others do every Wednesday when we have our night out?”

Originally, he’d only been invited because the other men don’t feel comfortable letting the women go out on their own, but it quickly changed into weekly nights where they all get together at Ada’s house and tell each other what their respective husbands, boyfriend in Ada’s case, have done this time. He mostly joins so he can get a night away from the kids, but Arthur doesn’t have to know that. 

“What?”

“What?”

“I thought you just went dancing and out for dinner!”

“Sure, but then we go back to Ada’s house, get wine drunk and they try out face-masks on me. Last week we tried charcoal, but I don’t think it agreed with me. Anyway, I better be getting home, I have to put my own kids to bed, I know that Arthur hasn’t done it.”

Esme waves at him as he leaves, and John just sits at the table, looking shocked like everything he thought he knew has come crashing down around him. Vincent can’t wait to see his reaction to finding out exactly what they talk about on those nights out.


	27. protector

“Dad?”

When Vincent woke up that morning, he knew it was going to a bad day. Years later, the war still had it’s claws in him, and he woke with the sound of gunfire and screams echoing in his ears. He’d left Arthur asleep and moved downstairs, sitting in the front doorway to let the sunshine in, and to reassure himself that there was a regular world out there, that he wouldn’t blink his eyes and find himself right back in the mud with a gun in his hands. 

Rose stands at the other end of the room, near the door leading to the stairs, and looks at him with tear marks on her face, holding her favourite stuffed animal tight to her chest. How long has he been awake for? Before the sun came out, he’s not sure about the exact time, but he hasn’t moved since he sat down. Sometime during the night he must have scratched the scars on his arm open again, because he’d found blood all over the sheets before he came down, but the bandage he’d put on them is holding up for now. Rosie looks at the bandage with a worried little frown on her face, and sits on his lap carefully, avoiding bumping it when she leans back against his chest. 

“What’s the matter, honey? Couldn’t sleep?”

“I had a nightmare.” He settles further back against the door and wraps his free arm around her, smiling softly down at her when she snuggles closer and rests her head on his chest, looking up at him with her big brown eyes. “It was scary.”

“Yeah? Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Can we just sit here?”

“Yeah, baby, we can do that. I’ve got you.” 

He’s not surprised when it doesn’t take her long to fall asleep again. When she’d been a baby, she’d had trouble sleeping if one of them wasn’t holding her. Apparently she’s still the same, but he’s not going to complain. They’ll grow up too quickly too soon, if the whispers of another war brewing are true, as much as he hates it and wishes he could pause time and keep them like this for the rest of their lives. 

“You can come out, you two.” His boys aren’t subtle or quiet, and he’d heard them trying to sneak down the stairs as soon as they’d opened their bedroom door. Billy comes in first, like always, with Teddy following close behind him. “Plenty of room if you want to join. Don’t wake your sister, she had a bad night.”

They’re all still small enough that he can hold all them at once, Teddy squashed in the middle with Billy on his left and Rosie on his right, and Vincent holds them all tight to his chest, burying his face into Teddy’s hair. The after effects of war are still with him, he knows that, and they probably won’t ever leave, but they recede a little when he’s got his kids around. It’s like his mind understands that no matter the horrors he’s seen in the past, he’s got to move past them and keep going because he’s got three kids that rely on him to keep functioning. 

“Why are you all awake this early?”

“We heard you and Rosie talking, and thought you might need help.” Billy is much too observant for his own good, especially for a seven year old, but at least he hasn’t used his skills for nefarious purposes. Yet, anyway, he is being raised by a killer. “You’re going to be okay, right?” Teddy joins Billy in looking up at him, watching him carefully, a spark of uncertainty on his face like he’s not sure if Vincent is going to get past the echoes of memories that won’t leave him alone. God, he loves them. 

“Yeah, I’m going to be okay now. How could I feel sad when I’ve got all my babies here with me?” 

“Dad, we’re not babies!”

“Oh, you’re not? Because only babies get hot chocolate, so if you’re not babies I guess that means I don’t have to make any?”

He can’t keep the smile off his face when Billy frowns, torn between wanting to announce that he’s not a baby and wanting hot chocolate, and laughs when Teddy sits up straighter and says “I’m still a baby!” with all the seriousness that a four year old can manage.

The sounds of screaming and gunfire will still be there tomorrow, and all the days after that, he knows that none of it will ever leave them alone, but it’s alright. He’s got three strong protectors to look after him.


	28. hands

“Hey, hey, not so fast.” Rosie hangs her head, trying to sneak past him and up the stairs before he can see her, but he’s not stupid and knows when his only girl is upset. She’s usually cheery when she gets home, so he knows that something is wrong. “You’re late, what happened?” It only takes ten minutes for them to ride their bikes from home to school, and then the same time back again, so when he notices that’s it been half an hour and she hasn’t rounded the corner, it was pretty obvious. 

“Nothing.”

“Rose Shelby, turn around and look at me.”

He rarely uses the ‘Dad voice’ on them, as John calls it, and when he does they know that he means business. Whatever he was expecting to see, the bruise already forming on his daughter’s face isn’t it, and he tilts her head up so he can look at it properly, brushing her hair carefully back from her face. 

“Did someone hit you?” The shrug she gives him means yes but she doesn’t want to admit it, and she looks at him like she wishes she had run past him like she first attempted, either because she’s ashamed of it, or so she could hide it from him. Both options make him angry, but not at her, never at her. “You can tell me, I’m not angry at you, I promise.” It takes a little more coaxing, and some of his famous hot chocolate, before she admits something that it’s a group of older kids.

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for not fighting back like you’ve been teaching us.” 

He pulls her into a hug, careful to avoid the bruise on her face. 

“Hey, don’t ever be sorry about that, alright? While I’m around, you’ll never have to fight anything or anyone, that’s my job. Am I going to let anyone hurt my little girl?” She shakes her head. “That’s right. Now, you just finish your hot chocolate and then go upstairs and play with your brothers, alright?”

She’d told him older kids, so he’d been expecting a pack of eleven or twelve year old girls, not a group of boys that look around sixteen. Stupidly, they’re still there, laughing among themselves as they stand against the fence, and he stands and watches them for a minute before he makes his move and crosses the road, heading straight for them.

“Hey!”

“What the hell do you want?”

“You like beating up little girls? Huh?” He grabs the one that matches the description that Rosie had given him and punches him in the face, feels his nose break under his fist, and watches him drop to the ground with a hand over his face, wailing about the blood that’s pouring down his chin. “Not as fun when it’s you, is it?” It would’ve been too tempting to do worse, so he made sure to leave his knife at home on the dresser in the bedroom, but not having the knife doesn’t make him any less lethal. Especially to a teenager that doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself. “You’ve got some nerve, even thinking about touching my daughter.”

The teenager’s friends have already deserted him, running as soon as they’d seen Vincent coming, clearly being well aware of who he was. Smart kids. 

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh, you’re sorry? Well I’ve already had a bad day, and that’s not good enough. I should take your fucking hands for daring to put them on any of my kids, you piece of shit.”

“Please don’t.”

He kneels down, so they’re face to face and he can look the kid in the eyes, deadly serious when he says “You must be new around here, because you don’t know exactly who you messed with, so let me enlighten you: If you ever touch my daughter again, if you even think about it, I will kill you. I’ll come to your house, and your parents will hand you right over to me without even arguing, and they’ll be finding pieces of you for the next forty years.”


	29. father

“The school just called, Teddy’s gotten into trouble again. I’ve got to go down there and see them. I’ll see you when you get home.” Arthur nods at him, not looking at all surprised that their youngest has gotten into trouble yet again. Vincent isn’t either, really, even though he’s tried to tell Teddy that he has to behave. Teddy’s too much like him, he thinks, when he gets into the car, too headstrong to listen to anyone, and too reactive to people that just want to get him angry. Vincent has tried to talk to him about it, but it apparently hasn’t worked.

The drive doesn’t take long, and he leaves the car unlocked when he gets out. Only someone truly stupid would dare to touch it while he’s inside, so he doesn’t have to worry about it being missing when he’s finished dealing with his son yet again. The woman behind the desk when he walks in avoids his eyes, which is the first indication that something is different this time. Knowing Teddy, that could mean anything from getting into a fight to refusing to listen to instructions. It’s usually a guessing game when it comes to the little troublemaker. 

“Are you alright, Teddy?”

Teddy won’t meet his eyes, which isn’t unusual, and doesn’t answer him, just keeps his eyes on his shoes and shrinks down like he’s trying to turn himself invisible under his dad’s disapproving eyes. There’s no bruises or marks on him, so it can’t be anything too bad. 

“Mr Beckett is here to see you,” he hears the secretary say, and he tells Teddy to stay where he is. There’s another kid sitting out in the hall, holding a white rag to his nose that’s stained here and there with blood, so he has a pretty good idea what Teddy did. Still, better to wait and find out for sure. “Good afternoon, I’m sorry you had to be called in like this.” the headmaster says, looking at Vincent in thinly veiled distaste. He’s never been on good term with the other man, ever since he’d had to come down and get Billy for setting a small fire in one of the science rooms. Billy still insists that it was an accident.

“What did my boy do this time?”

The fact that there’s two other people in the room hasn’t escaped his notice. He’s never been too interested in the parents of the other kids that go to the school, because most of them are the kind that were born into money, and he knows that they all whisper about him behind his back. They look at him in disgust now, like being in the same room with him is too horrible for them to handle.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that there was a fight. Theodore is a very violent young man, and-”

“Which one of them started it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I forgive you. Which one of them started the fight? I know Teddy, he doesn’t do anything this bad unless he’s been provoked first, the same thing I taught Rosie and Billy. Never start a fight, but make sure you finish it. You understand, Mr. Nichols.”

He can practically hear the couple next to him gearing up for their inevitable tirade, and turns to look at them for the first time while he lights up a cigarette, ignoring the chastising cough the principal gives him for it. They look like every other rich couple that don’t know what their children are like because they’re never around. He’s also pretty sure that it was Teddy that hit the other kid, but like he said, he knows what his son is like and he knows that Teddy wouldn’t have done anything if the other boy hadn’t done something first.

“What are you implying, you-”

“I’m not implying anything. Why don’t we ask the kids what happened, hm? You two, come in here.”

The principal is only getting more flustered by the moment, and tries to tell Vincent that calling the boys in isn’t necessary, but a glare shuts him up before he can finish his sentence. Teddy steps into the room first, carefully, avoiding the eyes of everyone in the room, and the other boy follows him in, looking around the room like he has no idea what’s going on. Probably doesn’t, Vincent doubts he’s ever faced the consequences of anything in his life.

“You, tell me what happened,” he says, pointing his cigarette at the boy and waiting, not amused when the boy looks at his parents for reassurance first. The fidgeting gives his lies away immediately as he tells them that Teddy had started the fight completely unprovoked, still refusing to look Vincent in the eyes because he knows he’s guilty. “Are you sure that’s the story you want to go with?”

“It’s not a story, if he says that’s how it happened, then that’s how it happened!”

“Teddy, it’s your turn. Tell us what happened from your point of view.”

“I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened. He was saying all this stuff, about you and dad, and telling me that my whole family are wrong. We’re not, but he wouldn’t leave me alone, and I tried to ask him to stop but he kept saying that we’re going to hell, so I hit him, just like you taught me.”

Vincent had figured as much, isn’t shocked to hear that Teddy did throw the first punch, but by the sounds of it, the other boy had deserved it.

“You see, your boy is a little beast.”

He stands up and puts his hand on Teddy’s shoulder, reassuring, and doesn’t turn towards the other parents when he says “And you should teach your son not to say things like that to people. Come on, Teddy, I’m taking you home.”

There’s forms for him to sign to say that he’s taking Teddy home in the middle of the school day, so he tells Teddy to go and wait in the car while he fixes everything up. It would have been resolved, except for the punishment waiting for Teddy when they get home, if the father of the little bully hadn’t opened his foolish mouth.

“I can’t believe the little savages they allow into this school.”

It’s beyond satisfying to shove the man up against the wall, smacking his head against the bricks with a snarl, holding an arm to his throat and looking him in the eyes as he tries to struggle out of it, ignoring the screaming of his wife in the background. Everyone stops and watches them, wide eyed, not sure what to do when Vincent pulls the knife out of his suit jacket and runs it down the front of the man’s expensive suit.

“If I ever hear you talk about one of my kids like that again, I will take this knife and bury it so deep into your skull that it severs your spine. Do you understand?” Frantically, the man nods. “Good man. Now, you listen to me. If my son says that he hit your son because your son was being a fucking asshole, then I’m surprised that Teddy stopped with just one punch, because I’ve taught him far more than that. You better get YOUR little savage under control, or I’ll personally make sure that the next time it happens, my son will be well able to break both of his kneecaps.”

Vincent steps back and puts the knife back in his jacket, hidden in the folds, and looks at the terrified man, then at his wife and son, then at the secretary, who are all watching him with a horrified look on their faces. He should have restrained himself, let it go, he knows, but he’s got a mile wide protective streak when it comes to his kids, and a problem with not provoking people.

“I’m sorry you had to see that, ladies. And you, kid. If you don’t leave Teddy alone, I’ll know.”

He doesn’t look at Teddy when he gets into the car, keeping his eyes on the road, and says “You’re grounded for a week when we get home. I told you, you have to stop getting into fights, even when they provoke you.”

“But the things he was saying-”

“Teddy. I’m glad that you stood up for yourself, but you don’t need to stand up for us. People are going to talk, that’s what they do, sometimes you just have to walk away and not let it affect you, okay?” He thinks about taking Teddy back to the office with him, but figures the house would a better choice. If he goes back to the office, everyone’s just going to have a million and one questions. 

“He said we were going to hell.”

“What?”

“George, he said all of us were going to hell, because we have you and dad and no mum. Is that true?”

He’d been hoping to have this talk in a few years, when Teddy’s at least ten, not seven and looking at him with a hurt look on his face like he’s not sure if what the other kid said is true or not. He’d been trying to keep it as far away from them as possible, for as long as possible, but he should have figured that some asshole kid would ruin it sooner or later.

“Why don’t we sit down for this talk, huh?”

“Okay.”

The Talk, with a capital T because it’s important, has already been given to Billy, and he’s pretty sure Billy has already relayed it to Rosie, and they both took it fairly well, but it never gets any easier to try and figure out how to start it off. 

“Alright, well, you have me and your dad, we’re your parents, but the two of us, we can’t have kids of our own, even though we really wanted them. And some people, they have kids and they can’t look after them, so they leave them to be looked after until another family can take them in and look after them. That’s how we got you, and Rosie and Billy.”

Teddy looks at him, and he can practically see the cogs turning in his head as he thinks it over. 

“So, I come from a different family? I have different parents?”

“Yes. I’m not your real father, but we’re your dads, and we’re always going to be your dads no matter what, just like Billy and Rosie are always going to be your brother and sister. It’s like how Katie and the others aren’t Esme’s kids, but they still call her mum and she loves them like they’re her own.” 

“Is that why no one else is like me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m different, everyone says so. There’s something wrong with me.”

“Hey, there is nothing wrong with you. You’re just like you’re supposed to be, and no one, not even people you love, are allowed to make you feel like there’s anything wrong about that. You know, people used to tell me that I had something wrong with me too.”

He stands up and takes down two mugs from the cupboard, grabbing the cocoa and putting it down beside the kettle, making sure to keep his eyes on Teddy. Teddy isn’t looking at him, he’s looking down at the table, but he’s not so tense anymore so that’s a good sign, right? 

“Why don’t we have a mum?” He says, almost mumbling it, and that’s not a question Vincent expected, but he probably should have. It’s only natural to be curious, after all, and he’d probably ask the same thing if their positions were switched. “Did she die?”

“No, Teddy, she didn’t die. Me and your dad, we love each other just like Uncle Tommy and Aunt Lizzie do, so it’s just us.” He’s made hot chocolate enough times over the years that he can do it on autopilot now, measuring out the right amounts and putting them into the mugs without even looking. “Some people, they don’t like that, but it’s who I am and I don’t let them get to me. I’ve got your dad, and you and Rosie and Billy, and that’s all I need.” The mug is almost too big for Teddy’s hands, and he has to carefully hand it over so the drink doesn’t get spilt all over the ground, and then sits back in his own chair, across the table from Teddy. “Do you have any more questions?”

There’s a lull of silence while Teddy drinks his hot chocolate, a pleased smile on his face at the familiar taste. 

“Just one.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Can we go get icecream?”

Vincent has to laugh, and give his son points for trying. 

“Nice try, mister, but you’re still grounded for getting into fights.”

“But dad-”

“Uh-uh, no buts, we can get icecream when a week is up, now drink your hot chocolate before your father gets home, you know how he gets about me giving you too much sugar.” 

He has to lift his mug up in the air to stop it from being knocked when Teddy runs into him to throw his arms around him, burying his face into Vincent’s shoulder and squeezing him as tight as his seven year old arms can manage. Which is actually a surprising amount, but he does take after Vincent so he should have expected that. 

“What’s this for?”

“Just wanted to let you know that I love you, and you are my real dad.”

Vincent doesn’t cry, but it’s close.


	30. forever

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Arthur, go back to sleep.”

He walks to the bathroom and closes the door behind him, flicking the light on as he goes, and sits down on the floor. The memory of gunshots and blood mixing with mud had woken him up from the nightmares that are only getting more frequent, now that news that another war is stirring up again is all anyone can talk about. It’s usually accompanied by the feeling of someone wrapping a hand around his throat and squeezing, making it hard to breathe. If he closes his eyes, it feels like he’s right back there, kneeling in the mud and lying too many times to boys that wouldn’t make it home, telling them that they were going to be okay. 

“Vin?”

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

The door isn’t locked, so Arthur didn’t need to ask, could have just burst in at any moment. 

“It’s open.” He can almost smell it, the mud and the gunpowder, thick in his nose. Maybe it’s something that won’t ever leave, like it’s sunk beneath his skin to torture him in moments like this, late in the night when the rest of the world is silent and still. “You should go back to bed.” 

They’re both stubborn. It should lead to more fights, but by some miracle, it doesn’t. He feels like pushing Arthur away, though, when he sits down on the floor too, shuffling Vincent backwards until he’s leaning back against Arthur’s chest instead of the cold porcelain of the tub. Any other day, he’d be fine with it, but he’s always hated people seeing him when he’s weak, even Arthur. He’s supposed to be the strong one, has always been the one that looks after everyone else, not the one that needs looking after. 

That’s Arthur, though, aggressively caring, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight it right now. Not when he can feel the blood on his hands, and hear the pleas to take countless letters and pictures home, from the boys that died too young and too violently, bleeding out into the mud. 

“Why are you still here?” He means why Arthur is here, in the bathroom, but also in general. How many times over the years has he thought about how he’s not good enough for the man sitting behind him? Hundreds, probably. It’s always in the back of his mind, when he watches Arthur with the kids, or when he smiles, or looks at Vincent like he’s personally hung the mood. The greatest crime he’ll ever commit is the one he managed to pull off when Arthur fell in love with him. “Don’t you ever get sick of this?”

Through the thin walls, he can hear the kids asleep in their bedrooms, and the sound of Billy mumbling in his sleep. 

“I love you.”

“Is that enough to put up with me for the rest of your life? Be serious, no one wants to be left with the man who can’t keep his head together.”

In a perfect world, the arms that Arthur wrap around him would be enough to pull all his broken pieces back together, like the strength of it could fuse all the shattered bits into something whole again, but it’s not, and it just makes him feel worse. Neither of them should be here, sitting on the damp bathroom floor, one of them trying to be comforting while the other one tries to keep from losing his mind. 

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to be happy, and you’re never going to be happy with me to drag you down, Arthur.”

“I am happy. Right here, sitting on this floor, I’m happy. How couldn’t I be, with you in my arms?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know that this is just the trauma talking. I loved you this morning, and I love you right now, and thirty years from now, I’m still going to love you just as much as I did the day you stepped off that train. Even when I’ve lost most of my sight and can only make out shapes, I’m always going to know when I’m looking at you, because it’s going to feel like it did the day I met you.”

Arthur pulls him up off the floor and gets him across the bedroom to the bed, half carrying him because his legs have gone numb from the cold and the lack of movement, and rolls him over so he’s facing the wall then climbs in behind him, pressing against him chest to back and throwing an arm over his waist. Usually they sleep the other way, except for nights like this, when it’s hard to tell the difference between what’s happening inside his head and what’s real. 

“Will you still be here when I wake up?”

“For as long as you want me.”

“So forever then.”


End file.
